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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 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.

their gore,

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 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 deathbed of Fame.

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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 spirits 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 floods 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.

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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,

HOHENLINDEN.

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 riven, Then hush'd the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolt 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.

ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS.

Soul of the poet! wheresoe'er,
Reclaim'd from earth, thy genius plume
Her wings of immortality :
Suspend thy harp in happier sphere,
And with thine influence illume
The gladness of our jubilee.
And fly, like fiends from secret spell,
Discord and strife at Burns's name,
Exorcised by his memory;
For he was chief of bards that swell
The heart with songs of social flame,
And high delicious revelry.
And Love's own strain to him was given,
To warble all its ecstasies
With Pythian words unsought, unwill’d;
Love, the surviving gift of Heaven,
The choicest sweet of Paradise,
In life's else bitter cup distill'd.
Who that has melted o'er his lay
To Mary's soul, in Heaven above
But pictured sees, in fancy strong,
The landscape and the livelong day
That smiled upon their mutual love-
Who that has felt forgets the song ?

Nor skill'd one flame alone to fan :
His country's high-soul'd peasantry
What patriot-pride he taught! how much
To weigh the inborn worth of man!
And rustic life and poverty
Grow beautiful beneath his touch.
Him, in his clay-built cot, the muse
Entranced, and show'd him all the forms
Of fairy light and wizard gloom
(That only gifted poet views),
The genii of the floods and storms,
And martial shades from Glory's tomb.
On Bannock Field what thoughts arouse
The swain whom Burns's song inspires !
Beat not his Caledonian veins,
As o'er the heroic turf he ploughs,
With all the spirit of his sires,
And all their scorn of death and chains?
And see the Scottish exile, tann'd
By many a far and foreign clime,
Bend o'er his homeborn verse, and

weep
In memory of his native land,
With love that scorns the lapse of time,
And ties that stretch beyond the deep.
Encamp'd by Indian rivers wild,
The soldier, resting on his arms,
In Burns's carol sweet recalls
The scenes that bless'd him when a child,
And glows and gladdens at the charms
Of Scotia's woods and waterfalls.
Oh deem not, mid this worldly strife,
An idle art the poet brings;
Let high Philosophy control,
And sages calm the stream of life,
'Tis he refines its fountain-springs,
The nobler passions of the soul.

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