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False wizard, avaunt! I have marshall’d 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


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 bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud; All plaided and plumed, in their tartan array


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

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 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 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-


-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 strew'd in their

Like ocean-weeds heap'd on the surf-beaten shore,
Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains,
While the kindling as 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.



WHEN the dying flame of day
Through the chancel shot its ray,
Far the glimmering tapers shed
Faint light on the cowlèd head,
And the censer burning swung,
Where before the altar hung
That proud banner, which with prayer

Had been consecrated there.
And the nuns' sweet hymn was heard the while
Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle.

Take thy banner !—may it wave
Proudly o'er the good and brave,



When the battle's distant wail
Breaks the sabbath of our vale-
When the clarion's music thrills
To the heart of these lone hills-
When the spear in conflict shakes,
And the strong lance shivering breaks !

Take thy banner !-and beneath
The battle-cloud's encircling wreath,
Guard it-till our homes are free-
Guard it—God will prosper thee !
In the dark and trying hour,
In the breaking forth of power,
In the rush of steeds and men,
His right hand will shield thee then.

Take thy banner !—but when night
Closes round the ghastly fight,
If the vanquish'd warrior bow,
Spare him! By our holy vow,
By our prayers and many tears,
By the mercy that endears,
Spare him—he our love hath shared !
Spare him—as thou wouldst be spared !

Take thy banner !—and if e'er
Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier,
And the muffled drum should beat
To the tread of mournful feet,
Then this crimson flag shall be
Martial cloak and shroud for thee!

And the warrior took that banner proud,
And it was his martial cloak and shroud!



FAREWELL, a long farewell, to all my greatness !
This is the state of man: To-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms
And bears his blushing honours thick upon him :
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost;
And—when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a-ripening—nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured
Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,
These many summers in a sea of glory;
But far beyond my depth : my high-blown pride
At length broke under me; and now has left me,
Weary, and old with service, to the mercy
Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me.
Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye !
I feel my heart new open'd: 0, how wretched
Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours !
There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to,
That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,

and fears than wars or women have: And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again!



The moon is up, and yet it is not night,
Sunset divides the sky with her—a sea
Of glory streams along the alpine height
Of blue Friuli's mountains; heaven is free
From clouds, but of all colours seem to be
Melted to one vast iris of the west,
Where the day joins the past eternity ;

While, on the other hand, Meek Dian's crest Floats through the azure air—an island of the blest



A single star is at her side, and reigns
With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but still
Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains
Rolld o'er the peak of the far Rhætian hill,
As day and night contending were, until
Nature reclaim'd her order gently flows
The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil

The odorous purple of a new-born rose,
Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd within it

Fill'd with the face of heaven, which from afar
Comes down upon the waters, all its hues,
From the rich sunset to the rising star,
Their magical variety diffuse :
And now they change; a paler shadow strews
Its mantle o'er the mountains; parting day
Dies like the dolphin, whom

With a new colour as it gasps away,
The last still loveliest, till —’tis gone_and all is grey.


pang imbues


Ye distant spires, ye antique towers,

That crown the watery glade,
Where grateful science still adores

Her Henry's holy shade;

that from the stately brow
Of Windsor's heights th' expanse

Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among,
Wanders the hoary Thames along

His silver-winding way:
Ah! happy hills—ah! pleasing shade,

Ah! fields beloved in vain,

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