At need, he stood, advancing high
The glittering, floating Pageantry.

Who sees him?

many see, and One

With unparticipated gaze;

Who 'mong these thousands Friend hath none,

And treads in solitary ways.

He, following wheresoe'er he might,
Hath watched the Banner from afar,
As Shepherds watch a lonely star,
Or Mariners the distant light
That guides them on a stormy night.
And now, upon a chosen plot
Of rising ground, yon heathy spot!
He takes this day his far-off stand,
With breast unmailed, unweaponed hand.
- Bold is his aspect; but his eye
Is pregnant with anxiety,

While, like a tutelary Power,

He there stands fixed, from hour to hour:
Yet sometimes, in more humble guise,
Stretched out upon the ground he lies;
As if it were his only task

Like Herdsman in the sun to bask,

Or by his mantle's help to find

A shelter from the nipping wind:
And thus, with short oblivion blest,
His weary spirits gather rest.
Again he lifts his eyes; and lo!
The pageant glancing to and fro;
And hope is wakened by the sight,
He thence may learn, ere fall of night,
Which way the tide is doomed to flow.

To London were the Chieftains bent;
But what avails the bold intent?
A Royal army is gone forth.

To quell the Rising of the NORTH;
They march with Dudley at their head,
And, in seven days' space, will to York be led!
Can such a mighty Host be raised

Thus suddenly, and brought so near?
The Earls upon each other gazed;

And Neville was opprest with fear;

For, though he bore a valiant name,
His heart was of a timid frame,
And bold if both had been, yet they

66

Against so many may not stay."*
*From the old Ballad.

And therefore will retreat to seize

A strong Hold on the banks of Tees;
There wait a favourable hour,

Until Lord Dacre with his power

From Naworth comes; and Howard's aid

Be with them; openly displayed.

While through the Host, from man to man,

A rumour of this purpose ran,

The Standard giving to the care

Of him who heretofore did bear
That charge, impatient Norton sought
The Chieftains to unfold his thought,

And thus abruptly spake, "We yield (And can it be?) an unfought field!

How often hath the strength of heaven

To few triumphantly been given!

Still do our very children boast

Of mitred Thurston, what a Host

He conquered! Saw we not the Plain,

(And flying shall behold again)

Where faith was proved? — while to battle moved

The Standard on the Sacred Wain

On which the grey-haired Barons stood,

And the infant Heir of Mowbray's blood,

Beneath the saintly Ensigns three,
Stood confident of victory!

Shall Percy blush, then, for his Name ?
Must Westmoreland be asked with shame
Whose were the numbers, where the loss,
In that other day of Neville's Cross?
When, as the Vision gave command,

The Prior of Durham with holy hand
Saint Cuthbert's Relic did uprear

Upon the point of a lofty spear,

And God descended in his power,

While the Monks prayed in Maiden's Bower.
Less would not at our need be due

To us, who war against the Untrue;
The delegates of Heaven we rise,
Convoked the impious to chastise;
We, we the sanctities of old

Would re-establish and uphold."

The Chiefs were by his zeal confounded,

But word was given - and the trumpet sounded;
Back through the melancholy Host

4.

A

Went Norton, and resumed his post.

Alas! thought he, and have I borne
This Banner raised so joyfully,

This hope of all posterity,

Thus to become at once the scorn

Of babbling winds as they go by,

A spot of shame to the sun's bright eye,
To the frail clouds a mockery!

"Even these poor eight of mine would stem;"

Half to himself, and half to them

He spake, "would stem, or quell a force
Ten times their number, man and horse;
This by their own unaided might,

Without their Father in their sight,
Without the Cause for which they fight;
A Cause, which on a needful day
Would breed us thousands brave as they."
- So speaking, he his reverend head
Raised towards that Imagery once more:
But the familiar prospect shed
Despondency unfelt before :

A shock of intimations vain,

Dismay, and superstitious pain,

Fell on him, with the sudden thought

Of her by whom the work was wrought : —
Oh wherefore was her countenance bright

With love divine and gentle light?