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,
Clamanald the dauntless, and Moray the proud,
All plaided and plum'd in their tartan array—

WIZARD.

-Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day!

For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal,
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, 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; oh! mercy, dispel

Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell!

Life flutters convuls'd in his quivering limbs,

And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims.

Accurs'd 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:

For never shall Albin a destiny meet,

So black with dishonour, 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.

HOHENLINDEN.

ON Linden, when the sun was low,

All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow,

And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.