better than you know yourself; if the Prince once sets eyes on you, he will make you do what he pleases." The interview accordingly took place, and Lochiel, with many arguments, but in vain, pressed the Pretender to return to France, and reserve himself and his friends for a more favourable occasion, as he had come, by his own acknowledgment, without arms, or money, or adherent; or, at all events, to remain concealed till his friends should meet and deliberate what was best to be done. Charles, whose mind was wound up to the utmost impatience, paid no regard to this proposal, but answered, "that he was determined to put all to the hazard." "In a few days," said he, "I will erect the royal standard, and proclaim to the people of Great Britain, that Charles Stuart is come over to claim the crown of his ancestors, and to win it or perish in the attempt. Lochiel, who my father has often told me was our firmest friend,

may stay at home, and learn from the newspapers the fate

No," said Lochiel, "I will share the fate

of my Prince, and so shall every man over whom nature or

fortune hath given me any power."

HOHINLINDEN.

ON Linden, when the sun was low,

All bloodless lay th' 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.

But redder yet that light shall glow,

On Linden's hills of stained snow,

And bloodier yet the torrent flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun

Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,

Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,

Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!

Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave!
And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few, shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding sheet,

And every turf beneath their feet,
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.