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THERE was a sound of revelry by night;
And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her beauty and her chivalry; and bright

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when

Music arose, with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again; And all went merry as a marriage-bell

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it?

No: 'twas but the wind,

Or the car rattling o'er the stony street:

On with the dance! Let joy be unconfined;

No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet: :But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more, As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier, than before!

Arm! arm! it is! it is! - the cannon's opening roar!

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,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar,
And near, the beat of the alarming drum,

Roused up the soldier, ere the morning star ;
While thronged the citizens, with terror dumb,
Or whispering, with white lips, "The foe! They come !
they come!"

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And wild and high the "Cameron's gathering" rose!
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albin's hills
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,
Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers

With the fierce native daring, which instils
The stirring memory of a thousand years;

And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each clansman's ears!

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
Dewy with nature's tear-drops, as they pass,

Grieving if aught inanimate e'er grieves

Over the unreturning brave, alas!

Ere evening to be trodden like the grass Which now beneath them, but above shall grow,

In its next verdure, when this fiery mass

Of living valor, rolling on the foe,

And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low!

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life;

Last eve, in Beauty's circle proudly gay;
The midnight brought the signal sound of strife;
The morn, the marshalling in arms, - the day,
Battle's magnificently-stern array!

The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when rent,
The earth is covered thick with other clay,

Which her own clay shall cover, - heaped and pent, Rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent!

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Lochiel's Warning. CAMPBELL.



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 kingdom 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?
'Tis 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.



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


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 death-shot of foemen out-speeding, 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 o'er her famishing brood!


False wizard, avaunt! I have marshalled my clan:
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 plaided and plumed in their tartan array


Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day!

For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal,
Yet 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!
'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?

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