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, Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud; All plaided and plumed, in their tartan array-
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 finish'd. Their thunders are hush'd on the moors;
Culloden is lost, and my country deplores; But where is the iron-bound prisoner?
For the red eye of battle is shut in despair.
Say, mounts he the ocean wave, banish'd, 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! Oh! mercy, dispel
Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell!
HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS.
Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. Accursed be the faggots 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
-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
Like ocean-weeds heap'd on the surf-beaten shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains,
While the kindling as 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.
HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS.
WHEN the dying flame of day Through the chancel shot its ray, Far the glimmering tapers shed Faint light on the cowled head, And the censer burning swung, Where before the altar hung
That proud banner, which with prayer
Had been consecrated there.
And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle.
Take thy banner !—may it wave Proudly o'er the good and brave,
HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS.
When the battle's distant wail Breaks the sabbath of our vale- When the clarion's music thrills To the heart of these lone hills- When the spear in conflict shakes, And the strong lance shivering breaks!
Take thy banner!—and beneath The battle-cloud's encircling wreath, Guard it-till our homes are free- Guard it-God will prosper thee! In the dark and trying hour, In the breaking forth of power, In the rush of steeds and men, His right hand will shield thee then.
Take thy banner !—but when night Closes round the ghastly fight, If the vanquish'd warrior bow, Spare him! By our holy vow, By our prayers and many tears, By the mercy that endears,
Spare him-he our love hath shared ! Spare him as thou wouldst be spared!
Take thy banner !—and if e'er
Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier, And the muffled drum should beat To the tread of mournful feet, Then this crimson flag shall be Martial cloak and shroud for thee!
And the warrior took that banner proud, And it was his martial cloak and shroud!
FAREWELL, a long farewell, to all my greatness! This is the state of man: To-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms And bears his blushing honours thick upon him: The third day comes a frost, a killing frost; And-when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening-nips his root, And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, These many summers in a sea of glory; But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride At length broke under me; and now has left me, Weary, and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye! I feel my heart new open'd: O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours! There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have: And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again!
THE moon is up, and yet it is not night— Sunset divides the sky with her—a sea Of glory streams along the alpine height Of blue Friuli's mountains; heaven is free From clouds, but of all colours seem to be Melted to one vast iris of the west, Where the day joins the past eternity;
While, on the other hand, Meek Dian's crest Floats through the azure air—an island of the blest
ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE.
A single star is at her side, and reigns
With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains Roll'd o'er the peak of the far Rhætian hill, As day and night contending were, until Nature reclaim'd her order :-gently flows The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil The odorous purple of a new-born rose,
Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within it glows.
Fill'd with the face of heaven, which from afar Comes down upon the waters, all its hues, From the rich sunset to the rising star,
Their magical variety diffuse :
And now they change; a paler shadow strews Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting day
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away,
The last still loveliest, till-'tis gone-and all is grey.
ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE.
YE distant spires, ye antique towers,
That crown the watery glade, Where grateful science still adores Her Henry's holy shade;
And ye that from the stately brow
Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among, Wanders the hoary Thames along
His silver-winding way:
Ah! happy hills-ah! pleasing shade,
Ah! fields beloved in vain,
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