Wizard.

Lochiel, Lochiel, be

ware 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 shadow before.

I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring

With the bloodhounds, 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, banished, 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 convulsed in his quivering limbs,

And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims.

Accursed 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: Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore, Like ocean-weeds heaped 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.

BANNOCKBURN.

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS

ARMY.

SCOTS, wha hae wi' Wallace bled;
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victorie.

Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lower;
See approach proud Edward's power:
Chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?

Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa'?

Let him follow me!

By oppression's woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,

But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!

Let us do, or die!
BURNS.

CROMWELL AND KING CHARLES.

'Tis madness to resist or blame
The force of angry heaven's flame;
And if we would speak true,
Much to the man is due,
Who from his private gardens, where
He lived reservèd and austere,

As if his highest plot
To plant the bergamot,
Could by industrious valor climb
To ruin the great work of Time,
And cast the kingdoms old,
Into another mould.
What field of all the civil war,
Where his were not the deepest scar?

And Hampton shows what part He had of wiser art; Where, twining subtile fears with hope,

SCOTLAND.

I MIND it weel, in early date, When I was beardless, young, and blate,

And first could thresh the barn; Or haud a yokin' at the pleugh; An' though forfoughten sair eneugh, Yet unco proud to learn!

Even then, a wish (I mind its power), A wish that to my latest hour

Shall strongly heave my breast That I for poor auld Scotland's sake Some usefu' plan or book could make,

Or sing a sang at least.

The rough burr-thistle spreading

wide

Then ceased-and all is wail,
As they strike the shattered sail;
Or, in conflagration pale,
Light the gloom.

Outspoke the victor then,

As he hailed them o'er the wave, "Ye are brothers! ye are men! And we conquer but to save:

So peace instead of death let us bring.

But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet
To our king.".

Then Denmark blest our chief,
That he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief,
From her people wildly rose,

As death withdrew his shades from the day;

While the sun looked smiling bright
O'er a wide and woful sight,
Where the fires of funeral light
Died away.

Now joy, old England, raise!
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,
While the wine cup shines in light;
And yet amidst that joy and up-

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

YE mariners of England!
That guard our native seas;
Whose flag has braved a thousand
years

The battle and the breeze:

Your glorious standard launch again,
To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

The spirit of your fathers
Shall start from every wave!
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave;
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

Britannia needs no bulwark,
No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain

waves,

Her home is on the deep.

With thunders from her native oak
She quells the flood below,
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy tempests blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn,

Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean warriors,
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.
CAMPBELL.

In both from age to age, thou didst rejoice,

They were thy chosen music, Liberty!

There came a tyrant, and with holy glee

Thou foughtst against him, but hast vainly striven;

Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,

Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.

Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft:

Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left;

For, high-souled maid, what sorrow would it be

That mountain floods should thunder as before,

And ocean bellow from his rocky shore,

And neither awful voice be heard by thee!

WORDSWORTH.

SONNET.

ALAS! what boots the long, laborious quest

Of moral prudence, sought through good and ill;

Or pains abstruse, to elevate the will,

And lead us on to that transcendent

rest

Where every passion shall the sway

attest

Of Reason, seated on her sovereign hill?

What is it but a vain and curious skill,

If sapient Germany must lie depressed

Beneath the brutal sword? Her haughty schools

Shall blush; and may not we with

sorrow say,

A few strong instincts and a few plain rules,

Among the herdsmen of the Alps, have wrought

More for mankind at this unhappy day,

Than all the pride of intellect and thought.

WORDSWORTH.