III. 1. "Edward, lo! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.) Half of thy heart we consecrate. (The web is wove. The work is done.) Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn: In yon bright track, that fires the western skies, They melt, they vanish from my eyes. But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll? Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail. All hail, ye genuine kings, Britannia's issue, hail! III. 2. "Girt with many a baron bold, Sublime their starry fronts they rear; And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old In bearded majesty, appear. Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face, Attempered sweet to virgin-grace. What strings symphonious tremble in the air, What strains of vocal transport round her play Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear; They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings, Waves in the eye of heaven her many-colored wings. III. 3. "The verse adorn again Fierce war, and faithful love, And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest. In buskined measures move Pale grief, and pleasing pain, With horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. A voice, as of the cherub-choir, Gales from blooming Eden bear; And distant warblings lessen on my ear, That lost in long futurity expire. Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud, Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood, And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me; with joy I see The different doom our fates assign. Be thine despair, and sceptred care; To triumph, and to die, are mine." He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night. GRAY. 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! Oh 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. 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 mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. Wizard. — Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? 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 havoc 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 battlement's 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. '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; 'Tis madness to resist or blame As if his highest plot And Hampton shows what part He wove a net of such a scope, To Carisbrook's narrow case; While round the armed bands, But with his keener eye THE VISION. MARVELL. As I stood by yon roofless tower, Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air, Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower, And tells the midnight moon her care: The winds were laid, the air was still, The stream, adown its hazelly path, The cauld blue north was streaming forth Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din; Athort the lift they start and shift, Like fortune's favors, tint as win. By heedless chance I turned mine eyes, And by the moonbeam shook to see A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, Attired as minstrels wont to be. Had I a statue been o' stane, His daurin' look had daunted me; And on his bonnet graved was plain, The sacred posy - Libertie! BURNS. Outspoke the victor then, As he hailed them o'er the wave, But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, Then Denmark blest our chief, As death withdrew his shades from the day; While the sun looked smiling bright Now joy, old England, raise! |