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FOTOCHIEL, Lochiel ! beware of the day
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 ! Lo! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode Companionless, bearing destruction abroad; But down let him stoop from his havoc on high ! Ah! home let him speed, — for the spoiler is nigh. Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast? 'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven From his eyry, 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!
WIZARD. – Lochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day! For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, But man cannot cover what God would reveal ; '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. Lo! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath, 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! ’T is finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors: Culloden is lost, and my country deplores, But where is the iron-bound prisoner? Where? For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, forlorn, Like a limb from his country cast bleeding 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 : 0 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.
- Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale;
WHEREFORE come ye forth in triumph from
the north, 3 With your hands, and your feet, and your rai
ment all red ? And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joyous shout ? And whence be the grapes of the wine-press that ye tread ?
O, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit,
strong, Who sate in the high places and slew the saints of God.
It was about the noon of a glorious day of June
hair, And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of the Rhine.
Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and his sword, The General rode along us to form us for the fight :