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'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore,

And coming events cast their shadow 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 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 fagots 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: Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore, Like ocean-weeds heaped 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

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THE unearthly voices ceased, And the heavy sound was still; It died on the river's breast, And it died on the side of the hill; But round Lord David's tower The sound still floated near, For it rung in the Lady's bower, And it rung in the Lady's ear; She raised her stately head, And her heart throbbed high with pride,

"Your mountains shall bend, And your streams shall ascend, Ere Margaret be our foeman's bride."

SIR WALTER SCOTT: Lay of Last Minstrel.

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'Tis madness to resist or blame
The force of angry heaven's flame;
And if we would speak true,
Much to the man is due,
Who from his private gardens, where
He lived reservèd and austere,

As if his highest plot
To plant the bergamot,
Could by industrious valor climb
To ruin the great work of Time,
And cast the kingdoms old,
Into another mould.
What field of all the civil war,
Where his were not the deepest scar?

And Hampton shows what part
He had of wiser art;
Where, twining subtile fears with
hope,

He wove a net of such a scope,
That Charles himself might
chase

To Carisbrook's narrow case;
That thence the royal actor borne,
The tragic scaffold might adorn.

While round the armed bands,
Did clap their bloody hands,
He nothing common did, or mean,
Upon that memorable scene,
But with his keener eye
The axe's edge did try;
Nor called the gods, with vulgar spite,
To vindicate his helpless right;
But bowed his comely head
Down, as upon a bed.

THE VISION.

MARVELL.

As I stood by yon roofless tower, Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air,

Where the howlet mourns in her ivy

bower,

And tells the midnight moon her

care:

The winds were laid, the air was still,
The stars they shot alang the sky;
The fox was howling on the hill,
And the distant-echoing glens re-
ply.

The stream, adown its hazelly path,
Was rushing by the ruined wa's,
Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,
Whose distant roaring swells and
fa's.

The cauld blue north was streaming forth

Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din; Athort the lift they start and shift,

Like fortune's favors, tint as win.

By heedless chance I turned mine

eyes,

And by the moonbeam shook to see A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, Attired as minstrels wont to be.

Had I a statue been o' stane,

His daurin' look had daunted me; And on his bonnet graved was plain, The sacred posy - Libertie! BURNS.

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Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun. —

Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack,
Till a feeble cheer the Dane
To our cheering sent us back; —
Their shots along the deep slowly
boom:-

Then ceased- and all is wail,
As they strike the shattered sail;
Or, in conflagration pale,
Light the gloom.

Outspoke the victor then,
As he hailed them o'er the wave,
Ye are brothers! ye are men!
And we conquer but to save: —
So peace instead of death let us
bring.

But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet
To our king.".

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YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.

YE mariners of England!
That guard our native seas;
Whose flag has braved a thousand
years

The battle and the breeze:

Your glorious standard launch again,
To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

The spirit of your fathers
Shall start from every wave!
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave;
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

Britannia needs no bulwark,
No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain waves,

-

Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak
She quells the flood below,
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy tempests blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.

The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn,

Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean warriors,
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.
CAMPBELL.

THOUGHT OF A BRITON ON THE SUBJUGATION OF SWITZERLAND.

Two voices are there, -one is of the sea,

One of the mountains, each a mighty voice;

In both from age to age, thou didst rejoice,

They were thy chosen music, Liberty!

There came a tyrant, and with holy glee

Thou foughtst against him, but hast vainly striven;

Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven,

Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.

Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft:

Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is left;

For, high-souled maid, what sorrow would it be

That mountain floods should thunder as before,

And ocean bellow from his rocky shore,

And neither awful voice be heard by thee!

WORDSWORTH.

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Or in the fields of empyrean light. A meteor wert thou crossing a dark night;

Yet shall thy name, conspicuous and sublime,

Stand in the spacious firmament of time,

Fixed as a star: such glory is thy right.

Alas! it may not be: for earthly fame Is fortune's frail dependent; yet there lives

A Judge, who, as man claims by merit, gives;

To whose all-pondering mind a noble aim,

Faithfully kept, is as a noble deed; In whose pure sight all virtue doth succeed.

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Within a windowed niche of that high hall

Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain: he did hear

That sound the first amidst the festival,

And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear;

And when they smiled because he deemed it near,

His heart more truly knew that peal too well

Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,

And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell:

He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,

And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,

And cheeks all pale, which, but an hour ago,

Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;

And there were sudden partings, such as press

The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs

Which ne'er might be repeated: who could guess

If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,

Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise?

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,

The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,

Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,

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