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 sightRise! 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? Where? For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier; Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell! Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat, LOCHIEL. -Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale; For never shall Albin a destiny meet So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat. Tho' my perishing ranks should be strew'd in their gore, Like ocean-weeds heap'd 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. HOHENLINDEN. ON Linden, when the sun was low, But Linden saw another sight, By torch and trumpet fast array'd, Then shook the hills, with thunder riven; But redder yet that light shall glow 'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave! And charge with all thy chivalry! Few, few shall part, where many meet! Shall be a soldier's sepulchre! BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. OF Nelson and the North, Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand, In a bold determined hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on. Like leviathans afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine; On the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime: As they drifted on their path, There was silence deep as death; And the boldest held his breath For a time.— But the might of England flush'd To anticipate the scene; And her van the fleeter rush'd O'er the deadly space between. "Hearts of oak!" our captain cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Of the sun. Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back : Their shots along the deep slowly boom: As they strike the shatter'd sail; Or, in conflagration pale, Light the gloom. Out spoke the victor then, As he hail'd them o'er the wave: So peace instead of death let us bring: To our King." Then Denmark blest our chief That he gave her wounds repose; And the sounds of joy and grief From her people wildly rose, As Death withdrew his shades from the day; While the sun look'd smiling bright O'er a wide and woful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away. Now joy, Old England, raise! |