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Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer!
Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn ?
Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast,
False Wizard, avaunt! I have marshalled my clan:
Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock! Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the
rock! But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, When Albin her claymore indignantly draws; When her bonnetted chieftains to victory crowd, Clamanald the dauntless, and Moray the proud, All plaided and plum'd 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: '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 blood-hounds, that bark for thy fugitive
Lo! anointed by heaven with the vials of wrath,
sight: Rise ! rise ! ye wild tempests, and cover hiş 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?
Life flutters convuls'd in his quivering limbs, And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swiins.
Accurs'd 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: For never shall Albin a destiny meet, So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat. Though 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,