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Ere evening to be trodden like the grass,
Which now beneath them, but above shall grow In its next verdure, when this fiery mass
Of living valour, rolling on the foe, And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.
Last noon-beheld them full of lusty life,
Last eve-in beauty's circle proudly gay,
The morn—the marshalling in arms—the day,
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which, when rent, The earth is cover'd thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and pent, Rider and horse friend, foe—in one red burial blent !
THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.
OUR bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track : 'Twas autumn—and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft
In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,
And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore,
From my home and my weeping friends never to part : My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o’er, And my
wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart :
Stay, stay with us—rest, thou are weary and worn;"
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay; But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away,
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 scatter'd in fight ! They rally !-they bleed !--for their kingdom and crown; Woe, woe 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, O Glenullin ! whose bride shall await
Culloden so dreadful appear,
Wizard. Ha ! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn?
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. Lochiel. False wizard, avaunt! I have marshall’d my
clan ! Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one !
They are true to the last of their blood and their breath,
Wizard. Lochiel ! Lochiel ! beware of the day!
Accursed be the faggots that blaze at his feet,
Lochiel. Down, soothless insulter ! I trust not the tale !
THE MIND'S THE STANDARD OF THE MAN.
'Tis the mind that makes the body rich;
furniture and mean array.