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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 woe to his kindred, and woe to to his cause,
When Albin her claymore indignantly draws;
When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd,
Clamanald the dauntless, and Moray the proud,
All plaided and plum'd in their tartan array“

WIZARD.

- Lochiel, Lochỉel, 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-hound, that bark for thy fugitive king.
Lo! anointed by heaven with the vials of wrath,
Beho!d, 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 fight!

'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, banish'd, forlorn,
Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn ?
Ab 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 convuls'd in his quivering limbs,
And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims.
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

LOCBIEL.

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, 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.

TO THE INVISIBLE GIRL.

T. Moore

THEY try to persuade my dear little sprite,
That you're not a daughter of ether and light,
Nor have any concera with those fanciful forms, .
Who dance upon rainbows, and ride upon storms;
That, in short, you're a woman, your lip and your breast
As mortal as ever were tasted and prest!
But I will not believe it- No, Science! to you
I have long bid a last, and a careless adieu;
Still flying from nature to study her laws,
And dulling delight, by exploring its cause,
You forget how superior for mortals below
Is the fiction they dream to the truth that they know.
Oh! who that has ever had rapture complete,
Would ask how we feel it, or why it is sweet;
How rays are confin'd, or how particles fly
Through the medium refin'd of a glance or a sigh-
Is there one who but once would not rather have known it,
Than written, with Harvey, whole volumes upon it?
No, no-but for you, my invisible love,
I will swear you are one of those spirits that rove
By the bank, where at twilight the poet reclines,
When the star of the west on his solitude shines.
And the magical fingers of Fancy have hung
Every breeze with a sigh, every leaf with a tongue.
Oh! whisper him then, 'tis retirement alone
Can hallow his harp, or ennoble its tone! .
Like you, with a veil of seclusion between,
His song to the world let him utter unseen,

And like you, a legitimate child of the spheres,
Escape from the eye to enrapture the ears!
Sweet agent of mystery! how I should love,
In the wearisome ways I am fated to rove,
For ever to have you invisibly nigh,
Inhaling for ever your song and your sigh!
Mid the crowds of the world, and the murmurs of care,
I could sometimes converse with my Nymph of the Air,
And turn with delight from the clamorous crew,
To steal in the pauses one whisper from you,

Oh come and be near me, for ever be mine! We shall hold in the air a communion divine, As pure as, of old, was imagin'd to dwell In the grotto of Numa or Socrates' cell: And oft, at those lingering moments of night, Where the heart is weigh'd down, and the eye-lid is light, You shall come to my pillow, and tell me of love, Such as angel to angel might whisper above! Oh spirit!-and then, could you borrow the tone Of that voice, to my ear so bewitchingly known, The voice of the one upon earth, who has twin'd With her essence for ever my heart and my mind; Though' lonely, and far from the light of her smile, An exile, and weary, and hopeless the while, Could you shed for a moment her voice on mine ear, I will think at that moment my Clara is near; That she comes, with consoling enchantment to speak, And kisses my eyelid, and sighs on my cheek, And tells me the night shall go rapidly by, For the dawn of our hope, of our heaven, is nigh!

Sweet spirit! if such be your magical power,
It will lighten the lapse of full many an hour,
And, let fortune's realities frown as they will,
Hope, Fancy, and Clara may smile for me still.

HOHENLINDEN.

T Campbell.

ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle blade,
And furious every charger neigh’d,
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riv'n,
Then rush'd the steed to battle driv'n,
And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flash'd the red artillery.

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