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LOCHIEL'S WARNING. Those embers, like stars from the firmament
'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully Wizard.
From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of When the Lowlands shall meet thee in
heaven. battle array!
O crested Lochiel, the peerless in might, For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, Whose banners arise on the battlements' And the clans of Culloden are scattered in
Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and
Return to thy dwelling ! all lonely return! Woe, woe, to the riders that trample them for the blackness of ashes shall mark where down!
it stood, Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the
brood. plain. But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning
False Wizard, avaunt! I have marshalled my What steed to the desert flies frantic and far?
clan, 'Tis thine, O Glenullin! whose bride shall Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are await,
one! Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at They are true to the last of their blood and the gate.
their breath, A steed comes at morning; no rider is there; And like reapers descend to the harvest of But its bridle is red with the sign of despair.
death. Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led !
Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the Oh weep! but thy tears cannot number the
Let him dash his proud form like the wave on For a merciless sword on Culloden shall
But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, Culloden, that reeks with the blood of the When Albin her claymore indignantly draws; brave.
When her bonneted chieftains to victory Lochiel.
crowd, Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling Glanronald the dauntless and Moray the proud, seer!
All plaided and plumed in their tartan arrayOr, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear,
For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal,
But man cannot cover what God would reHa! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn!
veal; Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, be torn!
And coming events cast their shadows before. Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring From his home in the dark rolling clouds of With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugithe north ?
tive king. Lo! the death-shot of foeman outspeeding, he Lo! anointed by heaven with the vials of wrath, rode
Behold, where he flies on his desolate path! Companionless, bearing destruction abroad; Now in darkness and billows, he sweeps from But down let him stoop from his havoc on my sight; high!
Rise, rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his Ah! home let him speed, for the spoiler is nigh. flight! Why flames the far suinmit? Why shoot to 'Tis finished. Their thunders are hushed on the blast
Culloden Is iost, and my country deplores.
Lochiel. But where is the iron-bound prisoner? -Down, soothless insulter! I trust' not the
Where? For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. For never shall Albin a destiny meet Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, for- So black wtth dishonor, so foul with relorn,
treat. Like a limb from his country cast bleeding Though my perishing ranks should be strewand torn ?
ed in their gore, Ah, no! for a darker departure is near; Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier; shore, His death-bell is tolling ; 0, Mercy! dispel Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell! While the kindling of life in his bosom reLife flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, mains, And his blood-streaming nostril in agony Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, swims.
With his back to the field and his feet to the Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet,
foe! Where his heart shall be thrown ere it ceases And leaving in battle no blot on his name, to beat,
Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of With the smoke of its ashes to poison the
THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.
. TOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, We buried him darkly at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot By the struggling moonbeams' misty light,
O’er the grave where our hero we buried. And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin inclosed his breast,
And now there breathed that haanted air Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; The sons of sires who conquered there, But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With arm to strike, and soul to dare, With his martial cloak around him.
As quick, as far as they.
That bright dream was his last; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was He woke, to hear his sentries shriek dead
“To arms! they comel the Greek/ the Greek! And we bitterly thought of the morrow. He woke, to die midst flame, and smoke,
And shout, and groan, and saber stroke, We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And death-sbots falling thick and fast And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er And heard, with voice as thunder loud,
As lightnings from the mountain cloud ; his head,
Bozzaris cheer his band : And we far away on the billow!
“Strike-till the last armed foe expires;
Strike—for your altars and your fires ; Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
Strike-for the green graves of your sires, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him;
God, and your native land !" But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on
They fought, like brave men, long and well; In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
They piled that ground with Moslem slain: But half of our heavy task was done,
They conquered—but Bozzaris fell,
Bleeding at every vein.
His smile when rang their proud hurrah,
And the red field was won;
Then saw in death his eyelids close
Like flowers at set of sun.
Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
Come to the mother's, when she feels,
Come when the blessed seals
That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke;
Come in consumption's ghastly form, The Turk was dreaming of the hour The earthquake shock, the ocean storm ; When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, Come when the heart beats high and warm, Should tremble at his power;
With banquet song, and dance, and wine : In dreams, through camp and court he bore And thou art terrible; the tear, The trophies of a conqueror ;
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
Of agony, are thine.
Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word; At midnight, in the forest shades,
And in its hollow tones are heard Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,
The thanks of millions yet to be. True as the steel of their tried blades,
Come, when his task of fame is wrought; Heroes in heart and hand.
Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought; There had the Persian's thousands stood, Come in her crowning nour-and then There had the glad earth drunk their blood Thy sunken eye's unearthly light On old Platæa's day;
To him is welcome as the sight
Of sky and stars to prisoned men;
To the world-seeking Genoese,
Blew o'er the Haytian seas.
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
(In Imitation of Alcæus.)
Bozzaris ! with the storied brave
Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Even in her own proud clime.
Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume,
The heartless luxury of the toinb;
And, she the mother of thy boys,
The memory of her buried joys,
Talk of thy doom without a sigh!
CHAT constitutes a State ?
Not high-raised battlement or labored mound,
Thick wall or moated gate ; Not cities proud with spires and turrets
Not bays and broad-armed ports, Where, laughing at the storm, rich navies ride;
Not starred and spangled courts, Where low-browed baseness wafts perfume to
Nol men, high-minded men, With powers as far above dull brutes endued
In forest, brake, or den, As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude;
Men, who their duties know, But know their rights, and, knowing, dare
Prevent the long-aimed blow, And crush the tyrant while they rend the
These constitute a State, Ånd sovereign Law, that State's collected will
O'er thrones and globes elate,
Smit by her sacred frown,
And e'en the all-dazzling crown
Such was this heaven-loved isle, Than Lesbos fairer, and the Cretan shore !
No more shall Freedom smile ? Shall Britons languish, and be men no more?
Since all must life resign, These sweet rewards, which decorate the
'Tis folly to decline, And steal inglorious to the silent grave.
SIR WILLIAM JONES.
ODE TO THE BRAVE.
(Written in the year 1746.) TOW sleep the brave, who sink to rest,
By all their country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall deck a sweeter sod
My country, this of thee,
Like that above.
he bright with free dom's holy with Poeettos by the might Great God