Not half so fearful; - not a flight drawn home,

A round stone from a sling, a lover's wish,

E'er made that haste they have. By heavens!

I have seen these Britons that you magnify,

Run as they would have out-run time, and roaring,

Basely for mercy, roaring; the light shadows,

That in a thought scour o'er the fields of corn,

Halted on crutches to them. Yes, Bonduca,

I have seen thee run too, and thee, Nennius;

Yea, run apace, both; then when Penyus,

The Roman girl, cut through your armèd carts,

And drove them headlong on ye down the hill;

Then

when he hunted ye like Britain foxes,

More by the scent than sight: then did I see

These valiant and approvèd men of Britain,

Like boding owls, creep into tods of ivy,

And hoot their fears to one another nightly.

I fled too,

But not so fast; your jewel had been lost then,

Young Hengo there; he trasht me, Nennius:

For when your fears outrun him, then stept I,

And in the head of all the Romans' fury

Took him, and, with my tough belt

to my back,

I buckled him; - behind him, my sure shield;

And then I followed. If I say I fought

Five times in bringing off this bud of Britain,

I lie not, Nennius. Neither had ye heard

Me speak this, or ever seen the child

My helm still on my head, my sword my prow,

Turned to my foe my face, he cried out nobly,

"Go, Briton, bear thy lion's whelp off safely;

Thy manly sword has ransomed thee: grow strong,

And let me meet thee once again in arms:

Then if thou stand'st, thou art mine." I took his offer,

And here I am to honor him.

There's not a blow we gave since Julius landed,

That was of strength and worth, but like records

They file to after-ages. Our Registers The Romans are, for noble deeds of honor;

And shall we burn their mentions with upbraidings?

Had we a difference with some petty Isle,

Or with our neighbors, lady, for our landmarks,

The taking in of some rebellious Lord,

Or making a head against commotions,

After a day of blood, peace might be argued :

But where we grapple for the ground we live on,

The Liberty we hold as dear as life, The gods we worship, and next those, our honors,

And with those swords that know no end of battle:

Those men beside themselves allow no neighbor;

Those minds that, where the day is, claim inheritance;

And where the sun makes ripe the fruits, their harvest; And where they march, but measure out more ground

To add to Rome, and here in the bowels on us;

It must not be; no, as they are our

foes,

And those that must be so until we

tire 'em,

Let's use the peace of Honor, that's fair dealing;

But in our ends, our swords.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,

Robed in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the poet stood; (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Streamed, like a meteor, to the troubled air),

And with a master's hand, and prophet's fire,

Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre. "Hark, how each giant-oak, and desert cave,

Sighs to the torrent's awful voice beneath!

O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave,

Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;

Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,

To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft
Llewellyn's lay.
I. 3.

"Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,
That hushed the stormy main:

Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:

Mountains! ye mourn in vain Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topped head.

On dreary Arvon's shore they lie,

Smeared with gore, and ghastly pale:

Far, far aloof the affrighted ravens sail;

The famished eagle screams, and passes by.

Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,

Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes,

Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,

Ye died amidst your dying coun

try's cries

No more I weep. They do not sleep.

On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, I see them sit, they linger yet,

Avengers of their native land: With me in dreadful harmony they join,

And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.

II. 1.

"Weave the warp, and weave the woof,

The winding sheet of Edward's race. Give ample room, and verge enough

The characters of hell to trace.
Mark the year, and mark the night,
When Severn shall re-echo with
affright

The shrieks of death, through Berk-
ley's roof that ring,
Shrieks of an agonizing king!
She-wolf of France, with unrelent-
ing fangs,

That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled mate,

From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs

The scourge of heaven. What terrors round him wait!

Amazement in his van, with flight combined,

And sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind.

II. 2.

"Mighty victor, mighty lord! Low on his funeral couch he lies! No pitying heart, no eye, afford A tear to grace his obsequies.

Is the sable warrior fled?

Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead.

The swarm, that in thy noontide beam were born?

Gone to salute the rising morn. Fair laughs the morn, and soft the zephyr blows,

While proudly riding o'er the azure realm

In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes;

Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm;

Regardless of the sweeping whirlwind's sway,

That, hushed in grim repose, expects his evening prey.

"Girt with many a baron bold, Sublime their starry fronts they rear; And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old

In bearded majesty, appear.
In the midst a form divine!
Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-
line;

Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face,

Attempered sweet to virgin-grace. What strings symphonious tremble. in the air,

What strains of vocal transport round her play

Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear;

They breathe a soul to animate thy clay.

Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as

she sings,

Waves in the eye of heaven her many-colored wings.

III. 3.

"The verse adorn again

Fierce war, and faithful love, And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.

In buskined measures move Pale grief, and pleasing pain, With horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast.

A voice, as of the cherub-choir, Gales from blooming Eden bear; And distant warblings lessen on my

ear,

That lost in long futurity expire. Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud,

Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day?

To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,

And warms the nations with redoubled ray.

Enough for me; with joy I see The different doom our fates assign.

Be thine despair, and sceptred care; To triumph, and to die, are mine." He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height

Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.

GRAY.

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 on Culloden shall wave,

Culloden! that reeks with the blood of the brave.

Lochiel. - 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.

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?

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.

Lochiel. False wizard, avaunt! I have marshalled 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 bonnetted chieftains to victory crowd,

Clanranald the dauntless, and Moray the proud;

All plaided and plumed in their tartan array

Lochiel, Lochiel, be

ware 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 shadow 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.

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;

His death-bell is tolling; oh! mercy, dispel

Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell!

Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs,

And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims.

Accursed be the fagots 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: 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!

And leaving in battle no blot on his