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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.)

Wizard and Lochiel.

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 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

LOCHIEL.

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

WIZARD.

Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn'? | Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn.!!

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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, |

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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 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 — |

WIZARD.

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; |

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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

|

LOCHIEL.

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.

a

• Cal-lo'den; not Cul-lo'dn.

b Soth'lès.

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THE HERMIT.

(BEATTIE)

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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