26 
afford them no rescue. The Gordon 
and the Swinton, with hand and heart, 
as father and son, devote themselves 
and their followers for the safety of 
their country; and under the guidance 
of a notorious freebooter, by name 
Hob Hattely, otherwise Hob of the 
Heron-plume, these “few, these gal- 
lant few, this band of brothers,” preci- 
pitate themselves, by a secret moun- 
tain-path, upon the undefended flank 
of the English yeomen. 
The second act transfers us to the 
English camp, presenting, in the dis- 
‘cipline established by the stern and 
over-ruling spirit of King Edward, a 
strong contrast to the insubordination 
of the Scots. Some humorous bye- 
play passes between Chandos and the 
crafty Abbot of Walthamstow, which 
is broken off by the signal for battle. 
King Edward, 
See Chandos, Percy.—Ha! St. George ! St. Edward! 
See it descending now, the fatal hail-shower, 
The storm of England’s wrath,—sure, swift, re- 
sistless, 
Which no mail-coat can brook. Brave English 
earts 
How close they shoot together !—as one eye 
Had aim’d five thousand shafts—as if oné hand 
Had loosed five thousand bowstrings. 
Percy. 
The thick volley 
Darkens the air, and hides the sun from us. 
King Edward. 
It falls on those shall see the san no more. 
The winged, the resistless plague is with them. 
How their vex’d host is reeling to and fro, 
Like the chafed whale with fifty lances in him. 
They do not see, and cannot shun the wound. 
‘The storm is viewless, as Death’s sable wing, 
Unerring as his scythe. * * What horse are these 
Rush from the thicket underneath the hill ? 
Percy. 
They’re Hainaulters, the followers of Queen Isabel. 
King Edward (hastily). 
Hainaulters! thou art blind: wear Hainaulters 
St. Andrew’s silver cross? or would they charge 
Fallen our archers, and make havock of them? 
Bruce is alive again. Ho! rescue! rescue! 
Who was’t survey’d the ground ? 
Ribaumont. 
Most royal liege. 
King Edward. 
Arose hath fallen from thy chaplet, Ribaumont. 
Ribaumont. 
I'll win it back, or lay my head beside it. [Eavit, 
, King Edward. 
St. George ! St. Edward !—Gentlemen, to horse 
And to the rescue. Percy, lead the bill-men; 
Chandos, do thou bring up the men-at-arms. 
If ee numerous host should now bear down, 
Bold as their van-guard, (to the Abbot,) thou 
may’st pray for us,— 
We may need good men’s prayers. To the rescue, 
Lords, to the res¢ue! Ha! St. George! St. Edward ! 
To this animated scene succeeds 
one of equal effect, which displays 
the success of Swinton’s manceuvre 
on the body of archers; but Edward’s 
men-at-arms are on the advance,'tind 
the peril is too obvious to be mistaken. 
Swinton eagerly desires to save his 
adopted son’s life. 
Swinton. 
Young Lord of Gordon, 
Spur to the Rezent,—show the instant need— 
News from Parnassus, No. XIX. 
[Aug. J, 
Gordon. 
I penetrate thy purpose; but I go not. 
Swinton. 
Not at my bidding ? I, thy sire in chivalry,—~ 
Thy leader in the battle? I command thee. 
Gordon. 
No! thou wilt not command me seek my safety,— 
For such is thy kind meaning,—at the expense 
Of the last hope which Heaven reserves for Scotland. 
After some further expostulation, 
Swinton yields. 
Must it be so? 
And am I forced to yield the sad consent, 
Devoting thy young life? O Gordon, Gordon, 
1 do it as the patriarch doom’d his issue,— 
lat my country’s, he at Heaven’s command; 
But I seek vainly some atoning sacrifice, 
Rather than such avictim. Hark! they come! 
That music sounds not like thy lady’s lute. 
Gordon. 
Yet shall my lady’s name mix with it gaily! 
Mount, vassals, couch your lances, and ery— 
“Gordon! 
Gordon fur Scotland and Elizabeth.” 
As they justly anticipated, the jea- 
lousy of the Regent leaves them in 
this hazardous crisis to their fate. The 
tempest of the English battle breaks 
upon the little band, and leaves their 
leaders mortally wounded on the 
field. 
Swinton. 
All are cut down,—the reapers have pass’d o’er us, 
And hie to distant haryest. My toil’s over; 
There lies my sickle (dropping jis sword), hand of 
mine again 
Shall never, never wield it. 
Gordon. 
O, valiant leader! is thy light extingnish'd, 
That only beacon-flame which promis’d safety 
In this day’s deadly wrack ! 
Swinton. 
My lamp hath long been dim. But thine, yonng 
Gordon, 
Just kindled, to be quench’d so suddenly, 
Ere Scotland saw its splendor! « # #* # 
Look on the field, brave Gordon, if thou can’st, 
And tell me how the day goes. But I guess,— 
Too surely do I guess— 
Gordon. 
All’s lost! all’s lost!—Of the main Scottish host, 
Some wildly fly, and some rush wildly forward; 
And some there are, who seem to turn their spears 
Agaiust their couutrymen. 
Swinton, 
Rashness, and cowardice, and secret treason, 
Combine to ruin us; and our hot valour, 
Devoid of discipline, is madmen’s strength, 
More fatal unto friends than enemies : 
I’m glad that these dim eyes shall see no more on’t, 
Let thy hand close them, Gordon,—I will think 
My Fair-hair’d William renders me that office ! 
[Dies. 
Gordon. 
And Swinton, I will think I do that duty 
To my dead father. 
Resisting the solicitation of De Vi- 
pont to save his life by flight, Gordon 
rushes on the English, who now en- 
ter, with Edward at their head ; but is 
soon overpowered. Chandos enquires 
the name of the bulky champion, 
whose giant frame is extended before 
them. 
Gordon. 
Let it suffice, he was a man this morning. 
Chandos. 
I question’d thee in sport; 1 do not need 
Thy information, youth. Who that has fought 
Through all these Scottish wars, but knows that 
crest. 
The sable boar chain’d to the leafy oak, 
And that huge mace still seen where war wis 
wildest. 
Kin 
