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| WIZARD. 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; | 5 |
| 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? | 10 |
| ’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! | 15 |
| O, weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead: | |
| For a merciless sword o’er Culloden shall wave, | |
| Culloden! that reeks with the blood of the brave. | |
| LOCHIEL. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer! | |
| Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear, | 20 |
| Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight, | |
| This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. | |
| WIZARD. Ha! laugh’st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? | |
| Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn. | |
| Say, rush the bold eagle exultingly forth | 25 |
| From his home in the dark rolling clouds of the north? | |
| Lo! the death-shot 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. | 30 |
| Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast | |
| Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast? | |
| ’T is the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven | |
| From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven. | |
| O crested Lochiel! the peerless in might, | 35 |
| 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. | 40 |
| LOCHIEL. 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! | 45 |
| 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, | 50 |
| All plaided and plumed in their tartan array— | |
| WIZARD. Lochiel! Lochiel! beware of the day! | |
| For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, | |
| But man cannot cover what God would reveal; | |
| ’T is the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, | 55 |
| 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! | 60 |
| 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? | 65 |
| 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; | 70 |
| His death-bell is tolling—O 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, | 75 |
| 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. | 80 |
| 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, | 85 |
| 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. | |
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