The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
When morn first broke, dark, stormy, and unclear,
To Towton's plain all Edward's host are near;
Wild, gloomy, red, the awful morning came,
As though the east was painted o'er with flame:
Upon the western hills, in ev'ry form,
Hung the dark clouds, and hail was in the storm.
It was the Sabbath broke upon the plain,
Where Henry's sixty thousand host had lain;
Not in warm tents, but on the damp cold ground—
Thousands of warriors sleeping there were found;
While others watched to feed with wood the fires,
And on the plain were seen unnumbered spires
Of quiv'ring flames, high crowned with azure smoke—
Such was the scene when first the morning broke.
The chiefs, each mounting on his prancing steed,
Rode forth amid the youths that soon must bleed.
A finer band of warriors never lay
Upon the plain, for war to sweep away;
Nor truer youths than Edward's ever found,
To guard, in war, the monarch these had crowned.
The trumpeters were ordered then to blow,
And every warrior that was sleeping low,
Stretched his strong limbs, half stiffened by the frost,
And many a soldier had all feelings lost,
And there had died, had not some good old wine
Warmed their cold bosoms ere they formed the line.
They rose—but not to dress, for that was done—
No hasty buckling of their armour on;
No sharpening of the battle-axe and spear—
All this was done before the host marched there.
To Towton's plain all Edward's host are near;
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As though the east was painted o'er with flame:
Upon the western hills, in ev'ry form,
Hung the dark clouds, and hail was in the storm.
It was the Sabbath broke upon the plain,
Where Henry's sixty thousand host had lain;
Not in warm tents, but on the damp cold ground—
Thousands of warriors sleeping there were found;
While others watched to feed with wood the fires,
And on the plain were seen unnumbered spires
Of quiv'ring flames, high crowned with azure smoke—
Such was the scene when first the morning broke.
The chiefs, each mounting on his prancing steed,
Rode forth amid the youths that soon must bleed.
A finer band of warriors never lay
Upon the plain, for war to sweep away;
Nor truer youths than Edward's ever found,
To guard, in war, the monarch these had crowned.
The trumpeters were ordered then to blow,
And every warrior that was sleeping low,
Stretched his strong limbs, half stiffened by the frost,
And many a soldier had all feelings lost,
And there had died, had not some good old wine
Warmed their cold bosoms ere they formed the line.
They rose—but not to dress, for that was done—
No hasty buckling of their armour on;
No sharpening of the battle-axe and spear—
All this was done before the host marched there.
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |