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 scatter'd in fight:
They rally!-they bleed! for their kingdom and
Wo, wo 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 o'er Culloden shall wave,
Culloden! that reeks with the blood of the brave.
Go preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer! Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear,
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight,
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright!
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.
Oh, crested Lochiel! the peerless in might,
Whose banners arise on the battlement's 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.
False wizard, avaunt! I have marshall'd 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 foam like a wave on the
rock!
But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause,
When Albin her claymore indignantly draws;
When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd,
Clanranald the dauntless, and Moray the proud,
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array.
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 blood-hounds that bark for thy fugitive
king.
Lo, anointed by Heaven with 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
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;
The death-bell is tolling! O mercy! dispel
Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell!
Life flutters, convulsed, on his quivering limbs,
And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims.
Accursed be the faggots that blaze at his feet,
Where is heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat,
With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale.
Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale: For never shall Albin a destiny meet,
So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat. Though my perishing ranks should be strew'd 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.
THE FLOWERS OF THE FIELD.
BY KEBLE.
SWEET nurslings of the vernal skies,
Bathed in soft airs, and fed with dew,
What more than magic in you
To fill the heart's fond view!
In childhood's sports, companions gay,
In sorrow, on life's downward way,
How soothing! in our last decay
Memorials prompt and true.
Relics ye are of Eden's bowers,
As pure, as fragrant, and as fair,
As when ye crowned the sunshine hours
Of happy wanderers there.
Fallen all beside the world of life
How is it stained with fear and strife!
In reason's world what storms are rife,
What passions rage and glare!
Ye fearless in your nests abide-
Nor may we scorn, too proudly wise,
Your silent lessons, undescried
By all but lowly eyes:
For ye could draw the admiring gaze
Of Him who worlds and hearts surveys;
Your order wild, your fragrant maze,
He taught us how to prize.
Alas! of thousand bosoms kind
That daily court you and caress,
How few the happy secret find
Of your calm loveliness!
"Live for to-day; to-morrow's light
To-morrow's cares shall bring to sight;
Go sleep like closing flowers at night,
And heaven thy morn will bless."
THE clouds that wrap the setting Sun,
When autumn's softest gleams are ending,
Where all bright hues together run
In sweet confusion blending:
Why, as we watch their floating wreath,
Seem they the breath of love to breathe ?
To Fancy's eye their motions prove
They mantle round the Sun for love.
When up some woodland dale we catch
The many-twinkling smile of Ocean,
Or with pleased ear bewildered watch
His chime of restless motion;
Still as the surging waves retire,
They seem to gasp with strong desire,
Such signs of love old Ocean gives,
We cannot choose but think he lives.
But he whose heart will bound to mark
The full bright burst of summer morn,
Loves too each little dewy spark
By leaf or flow'ret worn.
|