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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 midnight-brought the signal-sound of strife,

The morn—the marshalling in arms—the day,
Battle's magnificently-stern array !

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 !

CAMPBELL,

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,

LOCHIEL'S WARNING.

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 ?

Or,

'Tis thine, O Glenullin ! whose bride shall await
Like a love-lighted watch-fire 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, Albyn ! to death and captivity led !
Oh weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead;
For a merciless sword o'er Culloden shall wave-
Culloden ! that reeks with the blood of the brave.
Lochiel. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer!
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, rush'd 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. 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,
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 woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause,
When Albyn her claymore indignantly draws;
When her bonneted chieftains 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 :
'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 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 finish d. Their thunders are hush'd 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, banish’d, 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 !
For never shall Albyn 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,
Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low,
With his back to the field and his feet to the foe!
And, leaving in battle no blot on his name,
Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame.

SHAKSPEARE.

THE MIND'S THE STANDARD OF THE MAN.

'Tis the mind that makes the body rich;
And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds,
So honour peereth in the meanest habit.
What is the jay more precious than the lark,
Because his feathers are more beautiful ?
Or is the adder better than the eel,
Because his painted skin contents the eye ?
Oh no, good Kate ; neither art thou the worse
For this

furniture and mean array.

poor

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