"Lord Marmion view'd the landscape bright,--
He viewed it with a chief's delight,--
Until within him burn'd his heart,
As on the battle-day;
Such glance did falcon never dart,
When stooping on his prey.
'Oh! well, Lord Lion, hast thou said,
Thy King from warfare to dissuade
Were but a vain essay;
For, by St. George, were that host mine,
Nor power infernal, nor divine,
Should once to peace my soul incline,
Till I had dimmed their armor's shine
In glorious battle-fray!'"

A bard near at hand replied:

"'Tis better to sit still, than rise, perchance to fall."

From this scene of preparation for battle, their eyes wandered to the
fairest scene of peace. The distant city glowed in gloomy splendor. The
sun's morning beams tinged turret and tower. The wreaths of rising smoke
turned to clouds of red and gold. Dusky grandeur clothed the height
where the huge castle stood in state. Far to the north, ridge on ridge,
rose the mountains, the rosy morning light bathing their sides in floods
of sunshine, and turning each heather bell at their feet into an
amethyst. Yonder could be seen the shores of Fife, nearer Preston Bay
and Berwick. Between them rolled the broad Firth, islands floating on
its bosom like emeralds on a chain of gold.