Battle of Flodden Field.-Scott.

[A short time after his accession, Henry VIII. commenced war against Louis XII., King of France, and invading the country, gained a decided victory over the French i a brief conflict styled the Battle of the Spurs." In the mean time, King James of Scot. land, who had formed an alliance with Louis, made an invasion into England with a brave but tumultuous army of above fifty thousand men; but was met at Flodden, near the Cheviot Hills, by the Earl of Surrey, with an army of about half that number of men, and totally defeated (1513). The battle was long and bloody, and at its close the king and the flower of the Scottish nobility lay dead on the field. The Scots would not believe that their king was slain, asserting that the body which was taken to London and interred as his, was in reality that of one Elphinston, who, to deceive the English, was arrayed in arms resembling the king's during the battle. Hence, the populace entertained the opinion that James was still alive, having secretly gone on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and that he would return and take possession of the throne. To this fond conceit they clung for many years.

The following spirited description of the battle is extracted from Sir Walter Scott's poem, entitled “Marmion, a Tale of Flodden."]

NEXT morn the baron climbed the tower,

To view afar the Scottish power,

Encamped on Flodden edge:

The white pavilions made a show,
Like remnants of the winter snow,
Along the dusky ridge.

Long Marmion looked :—at length his eye
Unusual movement might descry

Amid the shifting lines:

The Scottish host drawn out appears,
For, flashing on the edge of spears,

The eastern sunbeam shines.

Their front now deepening, now extending,
Their flank inclining, wheeling, bending,
Now drawing back, and now descending,
The skillful Marmion well could know
They watched the motion of some foe,
Who traversed on the plain below.

Even so it was;-From Flodden ridge

The Scots beheld the English host
Leave Barmore-wood, their evening post,

And heedful watched them as they crossed

The Till* by Twisel Bridge.

* The Till, a branch of the Tweed, divided the two armies before the battle. On the morning of September 9, 1513. Surrey crossed this river, at a place called Twisel Bridge, near the confluence of the river with the Tweed.

High sight it is, and haughty, while
They dive into the deep defile;
Beneath the caverned cliff they fall,
Beneath the castle's airy wall.

By rock, by oak, by hawthorn tree,
Troop after troop are disappearing;
Troop after troop their banners rearing
Upon the eastern bank you see.
Still pouring down the rocky den,
Where flows the sullen Till,
And rising from the dim wood glen,
Standards on standards, men on men,
In slow succession still,

And sweeping o'er the Gothic arch,
And pressing on, in ceaseless march,
To gain the opposing hill.

That morn, to many a trumpet-clang,
Twisel! thy rocks' deep echo rang;

And many a chief of birth and rank,
St. Helen! at thy fountain drank.
Thy hawthorn glade, which now we see,
In spring-tide bloom so lavishly,
Had then from many an axe its doom,
To give the marching columns room.

And why stands Scotland idly now,
Dark Flodden! on thy airy brow,
Since England gains the pass the while,
And struggles through the deep defile?
What checks the fiery soul of James?
Why sits that champion of the dames
Inactive on his steed,

And sees, between him and his land, Between him and Tweed's southern strand, His host Lord Surrey lead?

What 'vails the vain knight-errant's brand!-O, Douglas, for thy leading wand!

Fierce Randolph, for thy speed!

O for one hour of Wallace wight,
Or well-skilled Bruce, to rule the right,
And cry-"Saint Andrew and our right!"
Another sight had seen that morn,
From fate's dark book a leaf been torn,

And Flodden had been Bannockbourne !—

The precious hour has passed in vain, And England's host has gained the plain; Wheeling their march, and circling still, Around the base of Flodden-hill.

“But, see! look up-on Flodden bent,
The Scottish foe has fired his tent,"
And sudden as he spoke,

From the sharp ridges of the hill,
All downward to the banks of Till,

Was wreathed in sable smoke;
Volumed and vast, and rolling far,
The cloud enveloped Scotland's war,
As down the hill they broke;
Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone,
Announced their march; their tread alone,
At times one warning trumpet blown,
At times a stifled hum,

Told England, from his mountain-throne
King James did rushing come.—
Scarce could they hear or see their foes,
Unit at weapon-point they close.
They close, in clouds of smoke and dust,
With sword-sway and with lance's thrust;
And such a yell was there,

Of sudden and portentous birth,
As if men fought upon the earth,
And fiends in upper air;

O! life and death were in the shout,
Recoil and rally, charge and rout,
And triumph and despair.

Long looked the anxious squires; their eye
Conld in the darkness naught descry.

At length the freshening western blast
Aside the shroud of battle cast;
And, first, the ridge of mingled spears
Above the brightening cloud appears ;
And in the smoke the pennons flew,
As in the storm the white sea-mew.
Then marked they, dashing broad and far
The broken billows of the war,

And plumèd crest of chieftains brave
Floating like foam upon the wave.

But naught distinct they see;
Wide raged the battle on the plain;
Spears shook and falchions' flashed amain;
Fell England's arrow-flight like rain;
Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again,
Wild and disorderly.

Amid the scene of tumult, high

They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly:
And stainless Tunstall's banner white,
And Edmund Howard's lion bright,
Still bear them bravely in the fight;
Although against them come
Of gallant Gordons many a one,
And many a stubborn highlandman,
And many a rugged border clan,

With Huntley and with Home.

Far on the left, unseen the while,
Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle;
Though there the western mountaineer
Rushed with bare bosom on the spear,
And flung the feeble targe aside,

And with both hands the broadsword plied:
'Twas vain :-But fortune, on the right,
With fickle smile, cheered Scotland's fight.
Then fell that spotless banner white,—
The Howard's lion fell;

Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew
With wavering flight, while fiercer grew
Around the battle yell.

The border slogan rent the sky!

A Home! a Gordon! was the cry;
Loud were the clanging blows;
Advanced,-forced back,-now low, now high,
The pennon sunk and rose;

As bends the bark's mast in the gale,
When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail,
It wavered 'mid the foes.

By this, though deep the evening fell,
Still rose the battle's deadly swell,

For still the Scots around their king,
Unbroken, fought in desperate ring.
Where's now their victor va'ward wing,
Where Huntley, and where Home?
O for a blast of that dread horn,

On Fontarabian echoes borne,

That to King Charles did come,
When Rowland brave, and Olivier,
And every paladin and peer,

On Roncesvalles* died!

Such blast might warn them, not in vain,
To quit the plunder of the slain,
And turn the doubtful day again,

While yet on Flodden side,

Afar the royal standard flies,

And round it toils, and bleeds, and dies,
Our Caledonian pride!

In vain the wish-for, far away,
While spoil and havoc mark their way,
Near Sibyl's cross the plunderers stray.—

And now upon the darkening heath
More desperate grew the strife of death.
The English shafts in volleys hailed,
In headlong charge their horse assailed ;
Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep,
To break the Scottish circle deep,

That fought around their king.

But yet, though thick the shafts as snow,
Though charging knights like whirlwinds go,
Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow,

Unbroken was the ring;

The stubborn spearmen still made good
Their dark impenetrable wood,

Each stepping where his comrade stood,
The instant that he fell.

No thought was there of dastard flight;-
Linked in the serried' phalanx tight,

Groom fought like noble, squire like knight,

As fearlessly and well;

* Charlemagne invaded Spain and made some important conquests from the Saracens in that country. On his return through the Pyrenees, the rear-guard of his army was surprised at Ron-ces val'les and defeated, its brave commander, Roland, nephew of Charlemagne, being slain.