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Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces
and lockets, The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor.
* Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and
hell and fate, And the fingers that once were so busy with your
blades ; Your perfum'd satin clothes, your catches and your oaths, Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and
your spades? Down, down, for ever down, with the mitre and the
crown, With the Belial of the Court, and the Mammon of the
Pope; There is woe in Oxford Halls; there is wail in Durham's
Stalls ; The Jesuit smites his bosom ; the Bishop rends his cope. And She of the seven hills shall mourn her children's ills, And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's
sword; And the kings of earth in fear, shall shudder when they
hear What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses
and the Word.
LONGING FOR HOME.—Miss Jean Ingelow.
A SONG of a boat :There was once a boat on a billow :
Lightly she rocked to her port remote,
And bent like a wand of willow.
Went curtseying over the billow,
And my thoughts all day were about the boat,
And my dreams upon the pillow.
For it is but short :
In river or port.
On the open desolate sea,
Soft and warm, and full to the brim;
For it is not long :-
The bushes among-
A fairer nestful, nor ever know
That wind-like did come and go.
Ah happy, happy I! Right dearly I loved them : but when they were grown
They spread out their wings to fly-
Far up to the heavenly blue,
And I wish I was going too.
My empty nest ?
My boat sail down to the west ?
Though my good man has sailed ?
Can I call that home where my nest was set,
Now all its hope hath failed P
And the land where my nestlings be :
Ab me !
LOCHIEL'S WARNING.-Campbell. Wizard. LOCHIEL, Lochiel ! beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array ! For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, And the clans of Culloden are scatter'd in fight. They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown; Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down! Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, What steed to the desert flies frantic and far? 'Tis thine, O Glenullin ! whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. 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, rush'd 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
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 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. 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 muffied, and black is the bier ; His death-bell is tolling : oh! mercy, dispel
Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell !
Loch.—Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale :
And all that mighty heart is lying still.
Enter BRUTUS and CASSIUS. Cas. That you have wronged me doth appear in this : You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella For taking bribes here of the Sardians;