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Wizard. LOCHIEL, Lochiel, beware of the day
Lochiel. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer ;
Wiz. Ha ! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn?
Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth
Loc. False wizard, avaunt! I have marshalled my clan ;
Wiz. 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. 'Tis 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.
Loc. Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale;
THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.
Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lowered,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
When reposing, that night, on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice, ere the morning, I dreamt it again.
Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array
Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track. 'Twas autumn, and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft
In life's morning march, when my bosom was young ; I heard my own mountain goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore
From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,
And my wife sobbed aloud, in her fullness of heart.
Stay, stay with us. Rest; thou art weary and worn !
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay; But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
William Hazlitt was born in Shropshire in 1778, the son of a Unitarian clergyman. He first attempted painting, but afterwards turned his attention to literary and artistic criticism, and lived by his contributions to journals and reviews. His style is forcible and often picturesque ; but he frequently fails to carry conviction, from his want of moderation and judgment. The first specimen here printed furnishes a case in point. The doctrine has a certain truth, but is not wholly true ; the lesson of the article is a useful one, but the state ments must be received with grains of allowance. His best known works are Table Talk, in two volumes, and The Round Table. He wrote also an elaborate Life of Napoleon, in four volumes ; A View of the English Stage ; Lectures on the English Poets, and on the Elizabethan Age; Characters of Shakespeare's Plays, and many other treatises. They are all distinguished by great critical ability, and have been collected in a series of volumes, edited by his son. He died in 1830. An edition of his miscellaneous essays, &c, was published in five volumes, Philadelphia, 1848.
ON THE IGNORANCE OF THE LEARNED.
(From Table Talk.) You might as well as the paralytic to leap from his chair and throw away his crutch, or, without a miracle, “to take up his bed and walk," as expect the learned reader to lay down his book and think for himself. He clings to it for his intellectual support ; and his dread of being left to himself is like the horror of a vacuum. He can only breathe a learned atmosphere, as other men breathe common air. He is a borrower of sense. He has no ideas of his own, and must live on those of other people. The habit of supplying our ideas from foreign sources “enfeebles all internal strength of thought," as a course of dram-drinking destroys the tone of the stomach. The faculties of the mind, when not exerted, or when cramped by custom and authority, become listless, torpid, and unfit for the purposes of thought or action. Can we wonder at the languor and lassitude which is thus produced by a life of learned sloth and ignorance, by poring over lines and syllables that excite little more idea or interest than if they were the characters of an unknown tongue, till the eye closes on vacancy, and the book drops from the feeble hand? I would rather be a wood-cutter, or the meanest hind, that all day “sweats in the eye of Phæbus, and at night sleeps in Elysium,” than wear out my life so, 'twixt dreaming and awake. The learned author differs from the learned student in this — that the one transcribes what the other reads. The learned are mere literary drudges. If you set them upon original composition, their heads turn, they know not where they are. The indefatigable readers of books are like the everlasting copiers of pictures, who, when they attempt to