« 上一頁繼續 »
And not a vassal shall unlace
hehold! like cataracts, Come down the hills in view. O'Connor's plumed partisans, Thrice ten Innisfallian clans Were marching to their doom : A sudden storm their plumage tossed, A Aash of lightning o'er them crossed, And all again was gloom; But once again in heaven the bands Of thunder spirits clapt their hands.
XVI. Stranger ! I fled the home of gries, At Connocht Moran's tomb to fall; I found the helmet of my chief, His bow still hanging on our wall; And took it down, and vowed to rove This desert place a huntress bold; Nor would I change my buried love For
any heart of living mould. No! for I am a hero's child, I'll hunt my quarry in the wild; And still my home this mansion make, Of all unheeded and unheeding, And cherish for my warrior's sake, The flower of love lies bleeding."
WIZARD. LOCHIEL! Lochiel, 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, wo to the riders that trample them down! Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, What steed to the desert flies frantic and far? 'Tis thine, oh Glenullin ! whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watchfire, all night at the gate. 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.
Go, preach to the coward, thou death telling seer!
Ha ! laugh’st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn?
False Wizard avaunt! I have marshalled my clan:
--Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day!
'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore,
from 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 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
-Down soothless insulter! I trust not the tale: (gore, Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their 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 soe ! And leaving in battle no blot on his name, Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame.
TRANSLATION FROM MEDEA.
Σκοειες δε λεγων, κεδέν τι σοφες
Medea, u. 194, p. 33, Glasg. edit.
Tell me, ye bards, whose skill sublime
hand with magic strain In slumbers steep the heart of pain !