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Think how his name hath glorified

The home where thou wert nursed. Do not thy childhood's memories all Tell brightly of his fame and fall?"


"But, ah!" the sad Lyre whispered, "How terrible to die,

While youth, and joy, and honor
Shine in the cloudless eye!

Think how thy mother wept and kneeled
That sire's low tomb before;

At length her fount of tears is sealed,—
O, open it no more !

Is it thy hand that should unfold
The memory of her griefs of old?"


The Sword spake yet more proudly:
"Which lifts the bitterer cry,
The grief for those who perish,

Or the shame for those who fly?
When thou shalt join the mighty slain,
When life's brief day is done,
Wouldst have thy hero-sire disdain
To own thee for a son?

How should he brook his line's disgrace? How couldst thou look upon his face?"


Out spake that youthful warrior: "Good Sword, thou counselest well; Come with me to the battle,

Where my true father fell:
Fair Honor is the queen I serve,
Bright Fame the gem I seek;
Nor will I suffer, nor deserve,
A blush to stain my
Unshaken let me ever stand,
Honor at heart and sword in hand!


"And thou, fond Lyre, remember
Thou art not wont to weep
O'er those who tamely perish

In slōthfulness and sleep;

Still have thy noblest strains been poured
Above the true and free;

Still loves the Lyre to grace the Sword, -
So let it ever be!

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Lochiel, a Highland chieftain, while on his march to join the Pretender, is met by one of the Highland seers, or prophets, who warns him to return, and not incur the certain ruin which awaits the unfortunate prince and his followers, on the field of Culloden. Charles Edward Stuart, the Pretender, was the grandson of James II., king of England, and was born at Rome, 1720. In 1745 he landed in Scotland, and laid claim, in his father's behalf, to the English throne. Many of the Highlanders joined his cause, and in two battles he gained advantages over the English. At last the duke of Cumberland was sent against him. The two armies met at Culloden, April 27, 1746, when, after an obstinate conflict, the Pretender's army was defeated and dispersed. After many perilous adventures he escaped to France, and died at Florence, 1788.

ALBIN, which signifies in the Gaelic language white or fair island, is a name often applied to Scotland. Pronounce LOCHIEL, lo-keel', CULLODEN, kul-lo'den.


Delivery. Much of the language of the Seer should be given in low pitch, with moderate time, frequent pauses, and tones indicative of grief and consternation. Lochiel's replies should be in middle or high pitch, with short pauses, quick time, and occasionally loud force.

Seer. Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array !
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight,
And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight:

They rally, they bleed, for their country and crown;
Woe, woe, to the riders that trample them down!
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain,
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain.
But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war,
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far?
"T is thine, O Glenullin! whose bride shall await,
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate.
A steed comes at morning: no rider is there;
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair!
Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led!
O weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead!
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave,
Culloden, that reeks with the blood of the brave!

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Lochiel. Go preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer;
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear,
Draw, dōtard, around thy old wavering sight,
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright!

Seer. 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 deathshot 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 eyry, that beacons the darkness of heaven.
O 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 over her famishing brood!
Lochiel. False wizard, avaunt! I have marshaled
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 his cause,
When Albin her claymore indignantly draws!
When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd;
Clanranald the dauntless, and Moray the proud,
All plăided and plumed in their tartan array -

Seer. 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 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!
"T is 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! For never shall Albin a destiny meet

So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat.
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 name,
Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame!





Delivery. This eloquent extract is in the loftiest didactic style of pulpit oratory, and should be read chiefly in the middle pitch, in pure and unimpassioned, though reverent tones, and with moderate force.

1. Theology teaches of a Being infinite yet personal; all blessed, yet ever operative; absolutely separate from the creature, yet in every part of the creation at every moment; above all things, yet under everything. It teaches of a Being who, though the highest, yet in the work of creation, conservation, government, retribution, makes Himself, as it were, the minister and servant of all; who, though inhabiting eternity, allows himself to take an interest, and to feel a sympathy in the matters of space and time.

2. His are all beings, visible and invisible, the noblest and the vilest of them. His are the substance, and the operation, and the results of that system of physical nature, into which we are born. His, too, are the powers and achievements of the intellectual essences, on which he has bestowed an independent action and the gift of origination.

3. The laws of the universe, the principles of truth, the relations of one thing to another, their qualities and

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