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On the Funeral of the Princess Charlotte.

Rev. W. L. Bowles.

LO! where youth and beauty lie

Cold within the tomb!

As the spring's first violets die

Wither'd in their bloom.

O'er the young and buried bride

Let the cypress wave

A Kingdoms hope, a Kingdoms pride,
Lie hid in yonder grave.

Place the vain-expected child,

Gently near her breast!

It never wept, it never smil'd

But seeks its mother's rest.

Hark! we hear the general cry!
Hark! the passing bell!

A thousand, thousand bosoms sigh
A long and last farewell,


The Forest of Glenmore is drear,

Walter Scott.

It is all of black pine, and the dark oak-tree;
And the midnight wind, to the mountain deer,
Is whistling the forest lullaby :-

The moon looks through the drifting storm,
But the troubled lake reflects not her form,
For the waves roll whitening to the land,
And dash against the shelvy strand.

There is a voice among the trees

That mingles with the groaning oak—
That mingles with the stormy breeze,

And the lake-waves dashing against the rock;→→→
There is a voice within the wood,

The voice of the Bard in fitful mood,

His song was louder than the blast,

As the Bard of Glenmore through the forest past.

"Wake ye from your sleep of death,
"Minstrels and Bards of other days!
"For the midnight wind is on the heath,
"And the midnight meteors dimly blaze;
"The spectre with his bloody hand,†
“Is wandering through the wild woodland ;
"The owl and the raven are mute for dread,
"And the time is meet to awake the dead!

• Written under the threat of invasion, in the autumn of 1804.

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The forest of Glenmore is haunted by a spirit called Lhamdearg, or Red-hand.


"Souls of the mighty! wake and say,

To what high strain your harps were strung, "When Lochlin ploughed her billowy way, "And on your shores her Norsemen flung? "Her Norsemen, trained to spoil and blood, 'Skilled to prepare the raven's food, "All by your harpings doom'd to die, "On bloody Largs and Loncarty.

"Mute are ye all? No murmurs strange "Upon the midnight breeze sail by; "Nor through the pines with whistling change, "Mimic the harp's wild harmony! "Mute are ye now?-Ye ne'er were mute,

"When Murder with his bloody foot,

"And Rapine with his iron hand,

"Were hovering near your mountain strand.

"O yet awake the strain to tell,
"By every deed in song enroll'd,

"By every chief who fought or fell,
"For Albion's weal in battle bold:--
"From Coilgach, first who roll'd his car,
“Through the deep ranks of Roman war,
To him, of veteran memory dear,
"Who victor died on Aboukir.

"By all their swords, by all their scars, "By all their names, a mighty spell! "By all their wounds, by all their wars, “Arise the mighty strain to tell;

"For fiercer than fierce Hengist's strain,
"More impious than the heathen Dane,
"More grasping than all-grasping Rome,
"Gaul's ravening legions hither come!”—

The wind is hush'd, and still the lake-
Strange murmurs fill my tingling ears,
Bristles my hair, my sinews quake,

At the dread voice of other years-
"When targets clash'd, and bugles rung,
"And blades round warrior's heads were flung,
"The foremost of the band were we,
"And hymn'd the joys of Liberty!"


T. Campbell.



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 scattered 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 desart flies frantic and far?

'Tis thine, oh Glenüllin! 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.


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.


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,
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 battlements' height,

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