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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 !

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 battlements' 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.

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,

Wizard. Lochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day; For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal,

Ι 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 blood-hounds 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. 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,

För 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.



He sat in silence on the ground,

The old and haughty Czar,
Lonely, though princes girt him round,

And leaders of the war ;
He had cast his jewelled sabre,

That many a field had won,
To the earth beside his youthful dead-

His fair and first-born son.

With a robe of ermine for its bed

Was laid that form of clay,
Where the light a stormy sunset shed

Through the rich tent made way ;
And a sad and solemn beauty

On the pallid face came down,
Which the lord of nations mutely watched

In the dust, with his renown.

| Ivan the Czar, or Emperor of Russia, surnamed the Terrible, from his passion and cruelty, when old besieged Novogorod. His Boyards, or nobles, perceiving his incapacity, entreated him to give the command to his son. He was so enraged at this request, that although his son threw himself at his feet, he struck him with such force that he died in two days. Ivan survived him only two or three months.

Low tones at last, of woe and fear,

From his full bosom brokeA mournful thing it was to hear

How then the proud man spoke !
The voice that through the combat

Had shouted far and high,
Came forth in strange, dull, hollow tones,

Burdened with agony.
“There is no crimson on thy cheek,

And on thy lip no breath ;
I call thee, and thou dost not speak-

They tell me this is death!
And fearful things are whispering

That I the deed have done,
For the honour of thy father's name,


up, my son ! “Well might I know death's hue and mien

But on thine aspect, boy!
What, till this moment, have I seen,

Save pride and tameless joy?
Swiftest thou wert to battle,

And bravest there of all-
How could I think a warrior's frame

Thus like a flower should fall ?
“ I will not bear that still cold look-

thou fierce and free! Wake as the storm wakes! I will brook

All, save this calm, from thee! Lift brightly up, and proudly,

Once more thy kindling eyes ! Hath my word lost its power on earth ?

I say to thee, Arise ! “ Didst thou not know I loved thee well ?

Thou didst not! and art gone, In bitterness of soul, to dwell

Where man must dwell alone.

Come back, young fiery spirit !

If but one hour, to learn The secrets of the folded heart

That seemed to thee so stern.

“ Thou wert the first, the first, fair child

That in mine arms I pressed :
Thou wert the bright one, that hast smiled

Like summer on my breast !
I reared thee as an eagle,

To the chase thy steps I led, I bore thee on my battle-horse,

I look upon thee-dead !

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Lay down my warlike banners here,

Never again to wave,
And bury my red sword and spear,

Chiefs ! in my first-born's grave !
And leave me !- I have conquered,

I have slain: my work is done! Whom have I slain ? Ye answer not

Thou too art mute, my son !"

And thus his wild lament was poured

Through the dark resounding night, And the battle knew no more his sword,

Nor the foaming steed his might. He heard strange voices moaning

In every wind that sighed ; From the searching stars of Heaven he shrank,

Humbly the conqueror died.

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