LOCHIEL'S WARNING.

(Wizard.-Lochiel,)
Wizard.

LOCHIEL, Lochiel! beware of the day

When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array!

For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight.

They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown;

Woe, woe, to the riders that trample them down!

Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain.

But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war,

What steed to the desert flies frantic and far? 'Tis thine, O Glenullin! whose bride shall await,

Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate.

A steed comes at morning; no rider is there;
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair.
Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led!
Oh weep! but thy tears cannot number the
dead;

For a merciless sword on Culloden shall

wave

Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast?

"Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven

From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven.

O crested Lochiel, the peerless in might, Whose banners arise on the battlements' height,

Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn;

Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return! For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood,

And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood.

Lochiel.

False Wizard, avaunt! I have marshalled my clan, Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are

one!

They are true to the last of their blood and their breath,

And like reapers descend to the harvest of death.

Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock!

Let him dash his proud form like the wave on the rock!

brave.

Lochiel.

Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, Draw, dotard, around thine old wavering sight, This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright.

Wizard.

Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn! Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn!

Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth From his home in the dark rolling clouds of the north?

-Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the day!
For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal,
But man cannot cover what God would re-

veal;

'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before. I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king.

rode

Companionless, bearing destruction abroad;

But down let him stoop from his havoc on high!

Behold, where he flies on his desolate path! Now in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight;

Rise, rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight!

the moors;

Lochiel.

For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, forlorn,

tale;

For never shall Albin a destiny meet

So black wtth dishonor, so foul with retreat.

and torn?

Ah, no! for a darker departure is near;
The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier;
His death-bell is tolling; O, Mercy! dispel
Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell!
Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs,
And his blood-streaming nostril in agony
swims.

Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet,
Where his heart shall be thrown ere it ceases
to beat,
With the smoke of its ashes to poison the
gale-

ed in their gore,

Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore,

Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, While the kindling of life in his bosom remains,

Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low, With his back to the field and his feet to the foe!

And leaving in battle no blot on his name,
Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of
fame.
THOMAS CAMPBELL.

N°

We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeams' misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin inclosed his breast,

Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest

With his martial cloak around him.

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

And now there breathed that haunted air
The sons of sires who conquered there,
With arm to strike, and soul to dare,
As quick, as far as they.

An hour passed on; the Turk awoke:
That bright dream was his last;

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er
his head,

And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him; But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory? We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,

But we left him alone with his glory.

"To arms! they come ! the Greek! the Greek! He woke, to die midst flame, and smoke, And shout, and groan, and saber stroke,

And death-shots falling thick and fast As lightnings from the mountain cloud; And heard, with voice as thunder loud,

Bozzaris cheer his band:

"Strike-till the last armed foe expires; Strike-for your altars and your fires; Strike-for the green graves of your sires, God, and your native land!"

They fought, like brave men, long and well;
They piled that ground with Moslem slain:
They conquered-but Bozzaris fell,

His few surviving comrades saw
Bleeding at every vein.

His smile when rang their proud hurrah,
And the red field was won;

Then saw in death his eyelids close
Calmly, as to a night's repose,

Like flowers at set of sun.

Come to the bridal chamber, Death!

Come to the mother's, when she feels, For the first time, her first-born's breath; Come when the blessed seals That close the pestilence are broke, And crowded cities wail its stroke; Come in consumption's ghastly form, The earthquake shock, the ocean storm; Come when the heart beats high and warm,

With banquet song, and dance, and wine: And thou art terrible; the tear,

The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know, or dream, or fear,
Of agony, are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word; And in its hollow tones are heard

The thanks of millions yet to be. Come, when his task of fame is wrought; Come, with her laurel-leaf, blood-bought;

Come in her crowning hour-and then Thy sunken eye's unearthly light To him is welcome as the sight

Of sky and stars to prisoned men;
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
Of brother in a foreign land;
Thy summons welcome as the cry
That told the Indian isles were nigh

To the world-seeking Genoese,
When the land-wind, from woods of palm,
And orange groves, and fields of balm,
Blew o'er the Haytian seas.

Bozzaris! with the storied brave
Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Rest thee-there is no prouder grave,
Even in her own proud clime.
She wore no funeral weeds for thee,

Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume,
Like torn branch from death's leafless tree,
In sorrow's pomp and pageantry,

The heartless luxury of the tomb;
But she remembers thee as one
Long loved, and for a season gone;
For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed,
Her marble wrought, her music breathed;
For thee she rings the birthday bells;
Of thee her babes' first lisping tells;
For thine her evening prayer is said
At palace couch and cottage bed;
Her soldier, closing with the foe,
Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow;
His plighted maiden, when she fears
For him, the joy of her young years,
Thinks of thy faith, and checks her tears;
And, she the mother of thy boys,
Though in her eye and faded cheek
Is read the grief she will not speak,
The memory of her buried joys,
And even she who gave thee birth,
Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,

Talk of thy doom without a sigh!
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's;
One of the few, the immortal names,
That were not born to die!

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honor comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there!

WILLIAM COLLINS.

AN ODE.

(In Imitation of Alcæus.)

HAT constitutes a State?

Not high-raised battlement or labored mound,

Thick wall or moated gate;

Not cities proud with spires and turrets crowned;

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 pride.

No! 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 maintain,

Prevent the long-aimed blow, And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain:

These constitute a State,

And sovereign Law, that State's collected will O'er thrones and globes elate,

Sits Empress, crowning good, repressing ill.
Smit by her sacred frown,

The fiend Dissension like a vapor sinks,
And e'en the all-dazzling crown
Hides his faint rays, and at her bidding
shrinks.

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 brave,

'Tis folly to decline,

And steal inglorious to the silent grave.

SIR WILLIAM JONES.