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.