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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,
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!
A thousand, thousand bosoms sigh
THE BARD'S INCANTATION.*
The Forest of Glenmore is drear,
It is all of black pine, and the dark oak-tree;
The moon looks through the drifting storm,
There is a voice among the trees
That mingles with the groaning oak—
And the lake-waves dashing against the rock;→→→
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,
• Written under the threat of invasion, in the autumn of 1804.
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 chief who fought or fell,
"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,
The wind is hush'd, and still the lake-
At the dread voice of other years-
LOCHIEL! Lochiel, beware of the day
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array!
And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight.
'Tis thine, oh Glenüllin! whose bride shall await,
Oh weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead:
Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer!
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?
But down let him stoop from his havoc on high!