Its depths-are glowing bright-and fair, And the deep skies-seem hollowed there, Soft-trembling-as they felt the thrill Of music-echoed from the hill.
The living soul of beauty fills
The air-with glorious visions-bright, They wander-o'er the far-off hills,— And linger in the clear blue light; Off to the breathing heavens they go, Along the earth-they live-and glow, Shed o'er the lake-their happy smiles, And beckon to the glittering isles. Oh,-at this hour-when air and earth- Gush out-with love-and joy and light, And songs of gladness-hail the birth
Of all that's beautiful—and bright, Each pulse-beats high, each heart-is blown To flame, the spirit-drinks the tone
Of higher worlds—and melts away
In visions-of eternal day.
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 scattered in flight. 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,-oh 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-can not 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 flight.
WIZARD. Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume-shall be torn l— Say, rush'd the bold eagle—exultingly forth
From his home-in the dark-rolling clouds of the north? Lo! the death-shot of foeman 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 marshal'd my clan; Their swords-are a thousand,—their hearts—are but 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, But man-can not 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 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 muffled,—and black—is the bier; His death-bell-is tolling! O! Mercy dispel
Yon sight, that it freezes-my bosom-to tell! Life-flutters-convulsed-in his quivering limbs,
And his blood-streaming nostril—in agony swims. Accurs'd-be the fagots 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, For never-shall Albin-a destiny meet
So black-with dishonor,-so foul-with retreat.
Though my perishing ranks—should be strew'd in their gore, Like ocean-weeds-heap'd 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!
THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. BYRON.
Eternal Spirit-of the chainless mind! Brightest-in dungeons, liberty, thou art, For there-thy habitation-is the heart,- The heart-which love of thee-alone can bind. They chained us-each-to a column stone, And we were three,—yet each—alone ;— We could not move-a single pace, We could not see-each other's face, But with that pale-and livid-light That made us strangers-in our sight. And thus-together,—yet apart, Fettered-in hand, but pined-in heart; 'T was still some solace, in the dearth Of the pure elements of earth, To hearken-to each other's speech, And each-turn comforter-to each, With some new hope, or legend old; But even these—at length-grew cold. I-was the eldest of the three,
And to uphold-and cheer the rest, I ought to do-and did my best,— And each did well-in his degree. The youngest-whom my father loved, Because my mother's brow was given To him,-with eyes-as blue-as heaven, For him-my soul was sorely moved; For he was beautiful—as day, And in his natural-spirit-gay;
With tears-for naught—but others' ills, And then-they flowed like mountain rills,
Unless he could assuage the woe
Which he abhorr'd—to view below.
The other was as pure-of mind, But formed to combat-with his kind; Strong-in his frame, and of a mood
Which 'gainst the world-in war had stood, And perished-in the foremost rank
With joy:-but not in chains—to pine;— His spirit-withered—with their clank,— I saw it silently-decline.
He loathed and put away his food,— It was not that 't was coarse—and rude, For we were used to hunter's fare, And for the like-had little care; The milk-drawn from the mountain goat, Was changed-for water-from the moat; Our bread-was such as captive's tears Have moistened—many a thousand years Since man-first pent his fellow-men Like brutes-within an iron den. But what were these-to us-or him? These-wasted not his heart—or limb; My brother's soul-was of that mold, Which in a palace-had grown cold Had his free breathing-been denied The range of the steep mountain's side;- But why-delay-the truth ?-he died.
I saw, and could not hold his head, Nor reach his dying hand,-nor dead,— Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, To rend-and gnash my bonds in twain. He died,-and they unlocked his chain, And scooped for him-a shallow grave, Even from the cold earth-of our cave.
I begged them, as a boon, to lay His corse-in dust-whereon the day Might shine,-it was a foolish thought,- But then-within my brain—it wrought That even in death-his freeborn breast In such a dungeon could not rest. I might have spared my idle prayer,— They coldly laughed, and laid him there; The flat-and turfless earth-above The being-we so much did love;— His empty chain-above it leant, Such murder's fitting monument.
But he, the favorite-and the flower, Most cherished-since his natal hour,
His martyred father's dearest thought, My latest care,-for whom I sought To hoard my life, that his might be Less wretched-now, and one— e-day free; He too was struck, and-day-by day Was withered-on the stalk away.
O God! it is a fearful thing— To see the human soul take wing In any shape, in any mood;- I've seen it rushing forth in blood; I've seen the sick-and ghastly bed Of sin-delirious-with its dread;— But these were horrors,-this-was woe- Unmixed-with such,--but sure-and slow.
He faded, and, so calm-and meek, So softly worn, so sweetly weak,
So tearless, yet so tender,-kind,
And grieved-for those he left behind;
With all the while-a cheek whose bloom
Was as a mockery of the tomb, Whose tints-as gently sunk away
As a departing rainbow's ray;
An eye-of most transparent light,
That almost made the dungeon-bright.
And then-the sighs-he would suppressOf fainting nature's feebleness;—
I listened, but I could not hear;
I called, for I was wild-with fear :- I called, and thought-I heard a sound,— I burst my chain—with one strong bound, And rushed to him: I found him not, I-only-stirred-in this black spot, I-only-lived,-I-only-drew
The accursed breath-of dungeon-dew; The last, the sole,-the dearest link Between me-and the eternal brink, Which bound me-to my failing race Was broken-in this fatal place.
What next befell me-then-and there I know not well,—I never knew;— First-came the loss of light-and air, And then-of darkness too.
There were no stars,—no earth,—no time,— No check, no change,-no good,—no crime, But silence, and a stirless breath-
Which neither was of life-nor death.
« ПредыдущаяПродолжить » |