XXIII.

“Soon as the midnight bell did ring, Alone, and armed, forth rode the king To that old camp’s deserted round: Sir Knight, you well might mark the mound Left-hand the town—the Pictish race, The trench, long since, in blood did trace: The moor around is brown and bare, The space within is green and fair. The spot our village children know, For there the earliest wildflowers grow; But woe betide the wandering wight That treads its circle in the night! The breadth across, a bowshot clear, Gives ample space for full career: Opposed to the four points of heaven, By four deep gaps are entrance given. The southernmost our monarch passed, Halted, and blew a gallant blast; And on the north, within the ring, Appeared the form of England’s king Who then, a thousand leagues afar, In Palestine waged holy war: Yet arms like England’s did he wield, Alike the leopards in the shield, Alike his Syrian courser’s frame, The rider’s length of limb the same: Long afterwards did Scotland know, Fell Edward was her deadliest foe.