'Tis finished. 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 convuls'd in his quivering limbs,
And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims.
Accurs'd be the faggots, 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 dishonour, so foul with retreat.

Though my perishing ranks should be strew'd in

their gore,

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 death-bed of fame.

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 riv'n, Then rush'd the steed to battle driv❜n,

And louder than the bolts of heaven, Far flashed 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,