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. Thomas Campbell.

LOCHIEL'S FAREWELL.

(ULLODEN, on thy swarthy brow

Spring no wild-flowers nor verdure fair;
Thou feel'st not summer's genial glow,
More than the freezing wintry air.
For once thou drank'st the hero's blood,
And war's unhallowed footsteps bore;
Thy deeds unholy nature viewed,

Then fled, and cursed thee evermore.

From Beauly's wild and woodland glens,
How proudly Lovat's banners soar!
How fierce the plaided Highland clans

Rush onward with the broad claymore!
Those hearts that high with honor heave,
The volleying thunder there laid low;
Or scattered like the forest leaves,

When wintry winds begin to blow!

Where now thy honors, brave Lochiel?

The braided plumes torn from thy brow,

What must thy haughty spirit feel,

When skulking like the mountain roe!

While wild birds chant from Lochy's bowers,

On April eve, their loves and joys,
The Lord of Lochy's loftiest towers
To foreign lands an exile flies.

To his blue hills that rose in view,
As o'er the deep his galley bore,
He often looked and cried, "Adieu!
I'll never see Lochaber more!
Though now thy wounds I cannot feel,
My dear, my injured native land,
In other climes thy foe shall feel

The weight of Cameron's deadly brand.

"Land of proud hearts and mountains gray,
Where Fingal fought and Ossian sung!
Mourn dark Culloden's fateful day,

That from thy chiefs the laurel wrung.
Where once they ruled and roamed at will,
Free as their own dark mountain game,
Their sons are slaves, yet keenly feel
A longing for their father's fame.

"Shades of the mighty and the brave,
Who, faithful to your Stuart, fell!
No trophies mark your common grave,
Nor dirges to your memory swell.
But generous hearts will weep your fate,
When far has rolled the tide of time;
And bards unborn shall renovate

Your fading fame in loftiest rhyme."

John Grieve.

Culross.

WHEN

THE OLD SEAPORT.

HEN winds were wailing round me,
And Day, with closing eye,

Scowled from beneath the sullen clouds

Of pale November's sky, In downcast meditation

All silently I stood, Gazing the wintry ocean's

Rough, bleak, and barren flood.

A place more wild and lonely
Was nowhere to be seen;

The caverned sea-rocks beetled o'er
The billows rushing green;

There was no sound from aught around,

Save, mid the echoing caves,

The plashing and the dashing

Of the melancholy waves.

High, mid the lowering waste of sky,
The gray gulls flew in swarms;
And far beneath the surf upheaved

The sea-weed's tangly arms;
The face of Nature in a pall

Death-shrouded seemed to be,

As by St. Serf's lone tomb arose
The dirges of the sea.

In twilight's shadowy scowling,
Not far remote there lay
Thine old dim harbor, Culross,
Smoky and worn and gray;
Through far-back generations

Thy blackened piles had stood,
And, though the abodes of living men,
All looked like solitude.

Of hoar decrepitude all spake,
And ruin and decay;

Of fierce, wild times departed;
Of races passed away;

Of quaint, grim vessels beating up
Against the whelming breeze;
Of tempest-stricken mariners,
Far on the foamy seas.

It spake of swart gray-headed men,
Now dust within their graves,
Who sailed with Barton or with Spens,
To breast the trampling waves ;
And how, in shallops picturesque,
Unawed they drifted forth,
Directed by the one bright star
That points the stormy North.

And how, when windows rattled,

And strong pines bowed to earth,

Pale wives, with trembling children mute, Would cower beside the hearth,

All sadly musing on the ships.

That, buffeting the breeze, Held but a fragile plank betwixt The sailor and the seas.

How welcome their return to home!
What wondrous tales they told,
Of birds with rainbow plumage,
And trees with fruits of gold ;
Of perils in the wilderness,
Beside the lion's den;

And huts beneath the giant palms,
Where dwelt the painted men!

Mid melancholy fancies

My spirit loved to stray,

Back through the mists of hooded Eld,
Lone wandering, far away;
When dim-eyed Superstition
Upraised her eldritch croon,
And witches held their orgies
Beneath the waning moon.

Yes! through Tradition's twilight,

To days had Fancy flown

When Canmore or when Kenneth dree'd

The Celt's uneasy crown;

When men were bearded savages,

An unenlightened horde,