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 Nor martial shout nor minstrel tone Announced their march; their tread alone, At times one warning trumpet blown,

At times a stifled hum, Told England, from his mountain-throne

King James did rushing come. Scarce could they hear, or see their foes,

Until at weapon-point they close. They close in clouds of smoke and dust, With sword-sway and with lance's thrust;

And such a yell was there Of sudden and portentous birth, As if men fought upon the earth And fiends in upper air; O life and death were in the shout, Recoil and rally, charge and rout,

And triumph and despair. I/ong looked the anxious squires; their eye Could in the darkness nought descry.

At length the freshening western blast Aside the shroud of battle cast; And first the ridge of mingled spears Above the brightening cloud appears; And in the smoke the pennons flew, As in the storm the white sea-mew. Then marked they, dashing broad and far, The broken billows of the war, And plumed crests of chieftains brave Floating like foam upon the wave; But nought distinct they see:

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