And with those grey-haired champions stood,
Under the saintly ensigns three,
The infant Heir of Mowbray's blood-- 230
All confident of victory!--[84]
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?[II] 235
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 240
To God descending in his power.[85]
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: 245
We, we, the sanctities of old
Would re-establish and uphold:
Be warned"--His zeal the Chiefs confounded,[86]
But word was given, and the trumpet sounded:
Back through the melancholy Host 250
Went Norton, and resumed his post.
Alas! thought he, and have I borne
This Banner raised with joyful pride,[87]
This hope of all posterity,
By those dread symbols sanctified;[88] 255
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 light[89] clouds a mockery!
--"Even these poor eight of mine would stem"--
Half to himself, and half to them 261
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, 265
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:[90] 270
But the familiar prospect shed
Despondency unfelt before:
A shock of intimations vain,
Dismay,[91] and superstitious pain,
Fell on him, with the sudden thought 275
Of her by whom the work was wrought:--
Oh wherefore was her countenance bright
With love divine and gentle light?
She would not, could not, disobey,[92]
But her Faith leaned another way. 280
Ill