SCENE V.

Mont. Cheerly, my valiant friends! the field is ours. The scatter'd Roses of the Lancasters, Now deeper tinted, blush a double red, In shame of this defeat. Oh! this will much Rejoice King Edward!—Say, has any friend Made Henry sure?

Egbert. He is escaped alone, my lord! and Margaret, Who, with her little son, went, hand in hand, Hovering about the field, with anxious hope, Ev'n to the very last; when she perceived Her lines broke thro'—her troops almost dispersed,— She hung upon her boy, in silent anguish, Till the big tear dropt in his lily neck: Then, kissing him, as by a sudden impulse, Which mothers feel, she snatch'd him to her bosom, And fled with her young treasure in her arms:—— Nature so spoke in't, that our very soldiers Were soften'd at the scene, and, dull'd with pity, Grew sluggish in pursuit.

Mont. Well, let them go:— Their cause is, now, become so weak, and sickly, That, tho' the head exist, to plot fresh mischief, They will want limbs to execute,—Their House, (Once strong and mighty,) like a a palsied Hercules, Must, now, lament it has outlived its powers.— Meantime, as we return, in pride of conquest, Let us impress the minds of Englishmen With new-won glories of the House of York. Strike drum!—Sound trumpet!—Let the air be rent, With high and martial songs of victory.

Strike!—the God of Conquest sheds His choicest laurels on our heads: Mars, with fury-darting eye, Smooths his brow, and stalks before us; Leading our triumphant chorus, Hand in hand, with victory. And hark! the thund'ring drum, and fife's shrill tone, With brazen trumpet's clang, proclaim the day our own.