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 eyrie, 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.

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!
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 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.

* 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!
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,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neighed,
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills, with thunder riven;
Then flew the steed, to battle driven;

And, louder than the bolts of Heaven, Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow,
On Linden's hills of stained snow;
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,
Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.

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!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre !

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,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

III.

Britannia needs no bulwark,
No towers along the steep;