LOCHIEL'S WARNING. Lo! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode But down let him stoop from his havoc on high! For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood, LOCHIEL. False Wizard, avaunt! I have marshall'd my clan : Let him dash his proud foam, like a wave on the rock! WIZARD. -Lochiel, Lochiel beware of the day; CAMPBELL. Lo! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath, Now, in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight- ... 'Tis finish'd. Their thunders are hush'd 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! Accurs'd be the fagots that blaze at his feet, Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat, 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' 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, Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of fame. CAMPBELL. HOHENLINDEN. ON Linden, when the sun was low, But Linden saw another sight, By torch and trumpet fast array'd, Then shook the hills, with thunder riven; Then rush'd the steed to battle driven; And, louder than the bolts of heaven, Far flash'd the red artillery. But redder yet that light shall glow 'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave! And charge with all thy chivalry! BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. Few, few shall part, where many meet! Shall be a soldier's sepulchre ! BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. OF Nelson and the North, All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand, In a bold determined hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on.— Like leviathans afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine; On the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime: As they drifted on their path, There was silence deep as death; And the boldest held his breath For a time.— But the might of England flush'd To anticipate the scene; And her van the fleeter rush'd O'er the deadly space between. Hearts of oak!" our captain cried; when each gun |