Weep, Albin!* to death and captivity led! LOCHIEL. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer! Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight, 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? But down let him stoop from his havoc on high! LOCHIEL False Wizard, avaunt! I have marshalled my clan : The Gaelic appellation of Scotland, more particularly the Highlands Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock! Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock! 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! .. "Tis finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors; ... Culloden is lost, and my country deplores; But where is the iron-bound prisoner? Where? Say, mounts he the ocean wave, banished, forlorn, The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier; Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell! * An English historian, after enumerating the severe executions of the Highland rebels at Culloden, Carlisle, and elsewhere, concludes by informing us, that thousands experienced his Majesty's mercy, in being transported for life to the plantations! 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 LOCHIEL. -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 strewed 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! HOHENLINDEN. ON Linden, when the sun was low, But Linden saw another sight, By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, Then shook the hills, with thunder riven; And, louder than the bolts of Heaven, Far flashed the red artillery. 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! YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. A NAVAL ODE. I. YE Mariners of England! That guard our native seas: Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, The battle and the breeze! Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe! And sweep through the deep, While the stormy tempests blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy tempests blow. 11. The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave! For the deck it was their field of fame And Ocean was their grave: Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, III. Britannia needs no bulwark, |