Thy grasp is welcome as the hand | Of brother in a foreign land; ¦ Thy summons, welcome as the cry | That told the Indian Isles' were nigh | To the world-seeking Genoese, | When the land-wind, from woods of palm, And orange-groves, and fields of balm, | Blew o'er the Haytian seas. |
'Bozzaris! with the stori'd brave,
Greece nurtur'd in her glory's time, | Rest thee there is no prouder grave, | Even in her own proud clime. I
She wore no funeral weeds for thee, |
Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume | Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, | In sorrow's pomp, and pageantry, |
The heartless luxury of the tomb. I
But she remembers thee as one Long lov'd, and for a season gone ; | For thee her poet's lyre is wreath'd; | Her marble wrought, her music breath'd; | For thee she rings the birth-day bells; | Of thee her babes' first lisping tells: | For thine her evening prayer is said | A palace-couch, and cottage-bed; | Her soldier, closing with the foe, I Gives, for thy sake, a deadlier blow; ! His plighted maiden, when she fears | For him, the joy of her young years, | Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears And she, the mother of thy boys, I Though in her eye, and faded cheek | Is read the grief she will not speak', | The mem'ry of her buried joys, I And even she who gave thee birth, i Will. by their pilgrim-circled hearth, |
Talk of thy doom without a sigh: |
mf For thou art Free dom's now, and Fame's; | One of the few, the immortal names, | That were not born to die. |
LOCHIEL'S WARNING.
(CAMPBELL.)
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 scatter'd in fight.:| They rally, they bleed',, for their kingdom and crown ; Wo, wo to the riders that trample them down! | Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, | And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. I But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, i 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!| O 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. I
Go, preach to the cow'ard, thou death-telling seer! : Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, |
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight, This man tle, to cover the phantoms of fright.! 1
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'? Lo! the death-shot of foemen out-speeding, 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. I Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast i Those em bers, like stars from the firmament, cast? | "T is the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven | From his ey ry, that beacons the darkness of heavn. ] O 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! |
False Wizard, avaunt'! I have marshall'd my clan:] Their swords are a thou'sand; | 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 wo to his kindred, and wo 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 plum'd in their tartan array — |
Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day! I
For, dark, and despairing, my sight I may seal, | Yet 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. I
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 fin ish'd. Their thunders are hush'd on the moors; Culloden' is lost, and my country deplores.
But where is the iron-bound pris'oner? Where? 1 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 dark'er 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, convuls'd in his quivering limbs, I 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
Down', soothless insulter! I trust not the tale. ; | For never shall Albin, a destiny meet | So black with dishonour- so foul with retreat. | Tho' his perishing ranks should be strow'd in their gore, Like o'cean-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.
• Cal-lo'den; not Cul-lo'dn.
At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still, | And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove; | When nought but the tòrrent is heard on the hill, ] And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove. :| It was thus, by the cave of the mountain afar, |
While his harp rung symphonious, a hermit began;| No more with himself, or with nature at war, |
He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man". ] Ah! why all abandon'd to darkness, and wo? | Why, lone Philomela, that languishing fall, ? | For spring shall return, and a lover bestow', | And sorrow, no longer thy bosom inthral. I But, if pity inspire thee, renew the sad lay;|
Mourn, sweetest complainer, man calls thee to mourn;] O soothe him whose pleasures like thine, pass away; | Full quickly they pass but,, they never return. | Now gliding remote on the verge of the sky,
The moon half-extinguish'd, her cres cent displays; | But lately I mark'd | when majestic on high', |
She shone, and the planets were lost in her blaze. [ Roll on, thou fair orb, and with gladness pursue | The path that conducts thee to splendor again. :| But man's faded glory what change shall renew,?! Ah fool! to exult in a glory so vain! |
"T is night and the landscape is lovely no more. :| I mourn; but, ye woodlands, I mourn not for you;| For morn is approaching, your charms to restore, ¡ Perfum'd with fresh fragrance,and glittering with dew.J Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn; ¦
Kind Nature, the embryo blossom will save.: | But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn. !| O when shall day, dawn, on the night of the grave!
•Thought as a sage; not thaw'taz-zer sage Felt as a man not fel taz-zer man.
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