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A steed comes at morning: no rider is there;
Lochiel. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling
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 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 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 !
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 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 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,
För never shall Albin a destiny meet,
IVAN THE CZAR.'
BY MRS. HEMANS.
He sat in silence on the ground,
The old and haughty Czar,
And leaders of the war;
That many a field had won,
His fair and first-born son.
Was laid that form of clay,
Through the rich tent made way;
On the pallid face came down,
In the dust, with his renown.
" Ivan the Czar, or Emperor of Russia, surnamed the Terrible, from his passion and cruelty, when old besieged Novogorod. His Boyards, or nobles, perceiving his incapacity, entreated him to give the command to his son. He was so enraged at this request, that although his son threw himself at his feet, he struck him with such force that he died in two days. Ivan survived him only two or three months.
Low tones at last, of woe and fear,
From his full bosom brokeA mournful thing it was to hear
How then the proud man spoke !
Had shouted far and high,
Burdened with agony.
And on thy lip no breath ;
They tell me this is death!
That I the deed have done,
Look up, look up, my son ! “Well might I know death's hue and mien
But on thine aspect, boy!
Save pride and tameless joy ?
And bravest there of all-
Thus like a flower should fall ?
Rise up, thou fierce and free !
All, save this calm, from thee!
Once more thy kindling eyes !
I say to thee, Arise ! “ Didst thou not know I loved thee well ?
Thou didst not ! and art gone, In bitterness of soul, to dwell
Where man must dwell alone.
Come back, young fiery spirit !
If but one hour, to learn The secrets of the folded heart
That seemed to thee so stern.
“Thou wert the first, the first, fair child
That in mine arms I pressed :
Like summer on my breast !
To the chase thy steps I led, I bore thee on my battle-horse,
I look upon thee- dead !
“ Lay down my warlike banners here,
Never again to wave,
Chiefs ! in my first-born's grave!
I have slain: my work is done ! Whom have I slain ? Ye answer not,
Thou too art mute, my son !"
And thus his wild lament was poured
Through the dark resounding night, And the battle knew no more his sword,
Nor the foaming steed his might. He heard strange voices moaning
In every wind that sighed ; From the searching stars of Heaven he shrank
Humbly the conqueror died.