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Happy were they who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanoes and their mountain torch'.
A fearful hope was all the world contained';
Forests were set on fire'; and hour by hour
They fell and faded-and the crackling trunks
Extinguished with a crash,--and all was black'.

The brows of men', by the despairing light,
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them'. Some lay down',
And hid their eyes', and wept'; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clinched hands', and smiled';
And others hurried to and fro', and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and looked up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky',
The pall of a past world'; and then again'a
With curses cast them down upon the dust',
And gnashed their teeth', and howled'. The wild birds shrieked',
And', terrified', did flutter on the ground',
And flap their useless wings'; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous'; and vipers crawled
And twined themselves among the multitude',
Hissing', but stingless'. They were slain for food':
And war', which', for a moment',' was no more',
Did glut himself again; -a meal was bought
With blood'; and each sat sullenly apart',
Gorging himself in gloom! No love was left';
All earth was but one thought'; and that was' ...

Immediate and inglorious'; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails' Men
Died', and their bones were tombless as their flesh';
The meager by the meager were devoured'.
Even dogs assailed their masters'; all', save one',
And he was faithful to a corse',c and kept
The birds and beasts', and famished men', at bay',
Till hunger clung them', or the dropping dead
Lured their lank jaws'. Himself sought out no food',
But with a piteous and perpetual moan',
And a quick', desolate cry', licking the hand
Which answered not with a caress'... he died'.

The crowd was degrees'; but two
Of an enormous city did survive',
And they were enemies'. They met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place',
Where had been heaped a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage': they raked up',
And', shivering', scraped with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes', and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life', and made a flame
Which was a mockery! Then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter', and beheld
Each other's aspects'-saw, and shrieked', and died':-

*A.gen'. bMo'mėnt. «Korse.

Even of their mutual hideousness they died',
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written'.. fiend'a The world was void';
The populous and the powerful were a lump',
Seasonless', herbless', treeless', manless', lifeless'
A lump of death ma chaos of hard clay'.
The rivers', lakes', and ocean', all stood still,
And nothing stirred within their silent' depths'.
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea',
And their masts fell down piecemcal'; as they dropped',
They slept on the abyss without a surge':-
The waves were dead'; the tides were in their grâve',
The moon', their mistress', had expired before';
The winds were withered in the stagnant air';
And the clouds perished'. Darkness had no need
Of aid from them'-she was the universe!


Lochiel's Warning.-CAMPBELL


LOCHIEL', Lcchiel', 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 fight'.
They rally', they bleed', for their kingdom and crown';
Wo', wô.. to the riders that trample them down'!
Proud Cumberland prances', insulting the slain',
And their hoof-beaten bosons are trod to the plain'.
But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war',
What steed to the desert flies frantick 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'.
Wêêp', Albin'! to death and captivity led'
Oh; wêêp! but thy tears cannot number the dead':
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave',
Culloden'! that reeks with the blood of the brave'.


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 fright'.

Fèend. aSilent-not st’lunt.


Ha'! laugh'st thou', Lochiel', my vision to scórn'?
Proud bird of the mountain',- thy plume shall be torn!
Say', rushed the bold eagle', exultingly forth',
From his home in the dark-rolling clouds of the north’?
Lo'! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding', he rode'
Companionless', bearing destruction abroad';
But down let him stoop from his havock 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 eyry', 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'.


False Wizard', avaunt'! I have marshalled


Their swords are a thousand'; their bosoms arec 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 câûse',
When Albin her claymore indignantly draws';
When her bonnetedd chieftains to victory crowd',
Clanronald the dauntless', and Moray the proud';
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array'-


-Lochiel', Lochiel', beware of the day'!
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'.
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'? *Mountin-not, móůntn. ta'rė. cår. Bôn’nit-ed-not, bun'nft-éd.

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 spirits 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', erea it ceases to beat',
With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale'-


-Dôwn', soothless insulter'! I trust not the tale':
For never shall Albin a destiny meet'
So black with dishonour'-50 foul with retreat'.
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'.


Elegy written in a Country Churchyard.-GRAY. The curfew tolls', the knell of parting day';

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea'; The ploughman homeward plods his weary way',

And leaves the world to darkness and to me!
Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight',

And all the air a solemn stillness holds';
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds':
Save', that from yonder ivy-mantled tower',

The moping owl does to the moon complain'
Of such as', wand'ring near her secret bower',

Molest her ancient, solitary reign:
Beneath these rugged elms'—that yew-tree's shade',

Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell forever laid',

The rude forefathers of the hamlet...sleep'.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn',

The swallow', twittring from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion', or the echoing horn',
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed'.

adre, Strode

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn',

Or busy housewife ply her evening care';
Nor children" run to lisp their sire's return',

Or climb his knees', the envied kiss to share'.
Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield';

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke';
How jocundo did they drive their team a-field'!

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke'!
Let not ambition mock their useful toil',

Their homely joys and destiny obscure';
Nor grandeur hear', with a disdainful smile',

The short and simple annals of the poor'.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power',

And all that beauty', all that wealth'..e'erd gave',
Await', alike', the inevitable hour';

The paths of glory lead'... but to the grave'.
Nor you', ye proud', impute to these the fault',

If mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophiese raise',
Where', through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault',

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise'
Can storied urn', or animated busť',

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath'?
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or flattery sooth the dull', cold ear of death'?
Perhaps' .. in this neglected spot'.. is laid'

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire';
Hands' .. that the rod of empire might have swayed',

Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre':
But knowledge to their eyes her ample page',

Rich with the spoils of time', did ne'ers unrol';
Chill penury repressed their noble rage',

And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem'.. of purest ray serene',

The dark', unfathomed caves of ocean bear';
Full many a flower'.. is born to blush unseen',

And waste its sweetness' .. on the desert air'.

Some village Hampden', that', with dauntless breast',

The little tyrant of his fields withstood';—
Some mute', inglorious Milton', here may rest';

Some Cromwell', guiltless of his country's blood'.
Th' applause of list'ning senates to command',

The threats of pain and ruin to despise',
To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land',

And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes', *Hůz'wif. bTshil'dren--not, tshil'drun. •JØk'ånd. dåre. Tro'flz lle. Nåre.

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