And greet the old paternal shield,

They heard the summons; and, furthermore,
Horsemen and Foot of each degree,
Unbound by pledge of fealty,
Appeared, with free and open hate
Of novelties in Church and State;
Knight, burgher, yeoman, and esquire;
And Romish priest, in priest's attire.
And thus, in arms, a zealous Band
Proceeding under joint command,

To Durham first their course they bear;
And in Saint Cuthbert's ancient seat

Sang mass,

and tore the book of prayer,

And trod the Bible beneath their feet.

Thence marching southward smooth and free,

"They mustered their host at Wetherby,

Full sixteen thousand fair to see"; *
The Choicest Warriors of the North!

But none for beauty and for worth

Like those eight Sons,

who, in a ring,

(Ripe men, or blooming in life's spring,)
Each with a lance, erect and tall,
A falchion, and a buckler small,
Stood by their Sire, on Clifford moor,
To guard the Standard which he bore.
On foot they girt their Father round;
And so will keep the appointed ground

*From the old Ballad.

Where'er their march: no steed will he
Henceforth bestride; - triumphantly,
He stands upon the grassy sod,
Trusting himself to the earth, and God.
Rare sight to embolden and inspire!
Proud was the field of Sons and Sire;
Of him the most; and, sooth to say,
No shape of man in all the array
So graced the sunshine of that day.
The monumental pomp of age
Was with this goodly Personage;
A stature undepressed in size,
Unbent, which rather seemed to rise,
In open victory o'er the weight
Of seventy years, to loftier height;
Magnific limbs of withered state;
A face to fear and venerate;

Eyes dark and strong; and on his head
Bright locks of silver hair, thick spread,
Which a brown morion half concealed,
Light as a hunter's of the field;

And thus, with girdle round his waist,
Whereon the Banner-staff might rest
At need, he stood, advancing high
The glittering, floating Pageantry.

Who sees him? thousands see, and one With unparticipated gaze,

Who 'mong those 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 through a stormy night.
And now, upon a chosen plot

Of rising ground, yon heathy spot!
He takes alone 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,
Upon the turf-clad height he lies
Stretched, herdsman-like, as if to bask
In sunshine were his only task,
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's cheek grew pale with fear;
For, with a high and valiant name,
He bore a heart of timid frame;
And bold if both had been, yet they
"Against so many may not stay."
Back therefore will they hie to seize
A stronghold on the banks of Tees;
There wait a favorable hour,
Until Lord Dacre with his power

From Naworth come, and Howard's aid

Be with them openly displayed.

While through the Host, from man to man,

A rumor of this purpose ran,
The Standard trusting 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 oft has strength, the strength of Heaven,
To few triumphantly been given!

* From the old Ballad.

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

That bore it, compassed round by a bold
Fraternity of Barons old;

And with those gray-haired champions stood,
Under the saintly ensigns three,

The infant Heir of Mowbray's blood

All 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 the Prior of Durham with holy hand

Raised,

as the Vision gave command,

Saint Cuthbert's Relic, far and near

Kenned, on the point of a lofty spear;
While the Monks prayed in Maiden's Bower
To God descending in his power.
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:

Be warned".

His zeal the Chiefs confounded,

But word was given, and the trumpet sounded:

VOL. IV.

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