網頁圖片
PDF
ePub 版

And not a vassal shall unlace
The vizor from your dying face !

XV.
“ A bolt that overhung our dome
Suspended till my curse was given,
Soon as it passed these lips of foam
Pealed in the blood-red heaven.
Dire was the look that o'er their backs
The angry parting brothers threw;
But now,

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."

LOCHIEL'S WARNING

WIZARD-LOCHIEL.

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.

LOCHIEL.

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.

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 foeman 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 eyrie, 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.

LOCHIEL.

False Wizard avaunt! I have marshalled my clan:
Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are 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 cause,
When Albin her claymore indignantly draws ;
When her bonnetted chiestains to victory crowd,
Clanranald the dauntless, and Moray the proud;
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array-

WIZARD.

--Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day!
For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal,
But man cannot cover what God would reveal :

my sight:

'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore,
And coming events cast their shadows before.
I tell thee, Çulloden'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 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

LOCHIEL.

-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.

SPECIMENS

OF

TRANSLATION FROM MEDEA.

Σκοειες δε λεγων, κεδέν τι σοφες
Τις προσθε βρoτες και αν αμαρτοις.

Medea, u. 194, p. 33, Glasg. edit.

Tell me, ye bards, whose skill sublime
First charmed the ear of youthful Time,
With numbers wrapt in heav'nly fire ;
Who bade delighted Echo swell
The trembling transport of the lyre,
The murmur of the shell, -
Why to the burst of Joy alone
Accords sweet Music's soothing tone ?
Why can no bard, with magic strain,
In slumbers steep the heart of pain?
While varied tones obey your sweep,
The mild, the plaintive, and the deep,
Bends not despairing Grief to hear
Your golden lute, with ravished ear?
Oh! has your sweetest shell no power to bind
The fiercer pangs that shake the mind,
And lull the wrath, at whose command
Murder bares her gory hand ?
When flushed with joy, the rosy throng
Weaye the light dance, ye swell the song !
Cease, ye vain warblers ! cease to charm
The breast with other raptures warm!
Cease! till

your

hand with magic strain In slumbers steep the heart of pain !

« 上一頁繼續 »