of

of war,

LOCHIEL'S WARNING. Those embers, like stars from the firmament

cast? (Wizard.-Lochiel,)

'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully Wizard.

driven

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

height, fight.

Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and

burn; crown;

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

Lochiel.

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

shock! dead;

Let him dash his proud form like the wave on For a merciless sword on Culloden shall

the rock!

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,

Wizards
Draw, dotard, around thine old wavering sight,
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. -Lochiel, Lochiell beware of the day!

For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal,
Wizard.

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

the moors;

wave

tale;

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

fame. gale

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

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.
Few and short were the prayers we said, An hour passed on; the Turk awoke:
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;

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,
When the clock struck the hour for retiring; His few surviving comrades saw

Bleeding at every vein.
And we heard the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing.

His smile when rang their proud hurrah,

And the red field was won;
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

Then saw in death his eyelids close
From the field of his fame fresh and gory ? Calmly, as to a night's repose,
We carved not a line, and we raised not a

Like flowers at set of sun.
stone,
But we left him alone with his glory.

Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
CHARLES WOLFE.

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,
MARCO BOZZARIS.

And crowded cities wail its stroke;
T midnight, in his guarded tent,

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,
In dreams, his song of triumph heard ; And all we know, or dream, or fear,
Then wore his monarch's signet ring;

Of agony, are thine.
Then pressed that monarch's throne, a king;
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing, But to the hero, when his sword
As Eden's garden bird.

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

A

FROM "AMERICA."

From every

I loor;

naume

My country, this of thee,
Sweet land of liberty,
of the al

Aling
Land where my fathers diach
Land of the pilgrinn' friday

mountain side
Let freedom ring.
Land of the noble, free-
My nation country, - thes

Tai
Iloor thy rocks and rila
Thy words and Toufled hiltz-
Mytheart with rapture Thrills,

Like that above.
Qur father' Gal - The
Author of liberty,
To Thee ive

X

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