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CULLODEN. Why linger on this battle heath,

So sterile, wild, and lonely now? Stranger! it tells a tale of death,

That well befits its barren brow. Nay! rest not on that swelling sod,

But let us hence: It marks a grave! Whose verdure is the price of blood

The heart-stream of the vainly brave.

Long years ago, from o'er the sea,

A banish'd prince, of Stuart's line, Came thither, claiming fealty

And succour in his sire's decline. A triple diadem—a throne

Ambition's toys—his birthright were : Of valleys, lakes, and mountains lone,

Of all our country, was he heir.

And there we saw the chequer'd plaid

Across his bosom proudly cast, – The mountain bonnet on his head,

Its black plumes streaming in the blast: And then we heard the gathering cry

Come blended with the pibroch's strain, And saw the fire-cross flashing by,

Our warriors gathering on the plain. In sooth it was a stirring sight!

To these old eyes, grown dim with tears, Still, piercing through the after-night,

The past in all its pomp, appears, These shelter'd glens and dusky hills,

Yon isles that gem the western wave, Sent forth their strength like mountain rills,

To bleed, to die,—but not to save.

Away we rush'd, for chiefs were there;

And where should we, their clansmen, be But by their side ?—the worst to dare,

Aye changeless in fidelity.
And yon, young regal warrior, too,

So gaily in our tartans dress'd,
Was in our van; there proudly flew

The heather o'er his dancing crest.

Then came the Southron hand to hand,

And wide and wasting was the fray; But Victory smiled on Scotia's brand,

And swept their trembling ranks away. We chased them o'er the border streams :

Then England heard our slogan shout, And saw with dread the boreal gleams

Of Highland claymores flashing out.

The foe wax'd strong: our chieftains frown'd

In council on each other: then We basely left our vantage ground,

And turn'd us home like beaten men. Yet England's blue-eyed yeomen bold,

Though vaunting in their long array, Confess'd it was no play to hold,

Or strike, the mountain deer at bay.

At length Culloden's boding heath,

Despairing, saw our clansmen stand, While, flaming like the sword of death,

Before us gleam'd the Saxon brand. It smote us merciless; it slew

The flower of many a warrior clan, Till down yon bank the crimson dew,

To mingle with the hill stream ran.


Our chieftains sought their native hills;

Our prince was hunted like the deer;
The captives pour'd their blood in rills;

Nor dared a vassal raise the spear. Come, come away! you've now the tale,

That cost our country tears of blood : The Saxon conquer'd, and the Gael

Lies mouldering 'neath the verdant sod.


“ On his return from banishment, Camoens was shipwrecked at the mouth of the river Gambia. He saved himself by clinging to a plank, and of all his little property succeeded only in saving his poem of the Luciad, deluged with the waves as he brought it in his hand to shore *."-SISMONDI.

I saw him beat the surges under him,
And ride upon their backs; he trod the water,
Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted
The surge most swoln that met him.-TEMPEST.

Clouds gather'd o'er the dark blue sky,

The sun wax'd dim and pale,
And the music of the waves was changed

To the plaintive voice of wail;
And fearfully the lightning flash'd

Around the ship's tall mast, While mournfully through the creaking shrouds

Came the sighing of the blast.

• He is described with his sword in his hand upon the authority of his own words:

“ N'huma mao livros, n'outra, ferro et aco,
N'huma mao sempre a espada, n'outra a pena."

With pallid cheek the seamen shrank

Before the deepening gloom;
For they gazed on the black and boiling sea

As 'twere a yawning tomb;
But on the vessel's deck stood one

With proud and changeless brow:
Nor pain, nor terror was in the look

He turn'd to the gulf below.

And calmly to his arm he bound

His casket and his sword;
Unheeding, though with fiercer strength

The threatening tempest roar’d;

stretch'd his sidewy arms and cried : “For me there yet is hope, The limbs that have spurnà a tyrant's chain

With the stormy wave may cope.


« Now let the strife of nature rage,

Proudly. I yet can claim,
Where'er the waters may bear me on,

My freedom and my fame.”
The dreaded moment came too soon,

The sea swept madly on,
Till the wall of waters closed around

And the noble ship was gone.

Then rose one wild, half-stifled cry;

The swimmer's bubbling breath Was all unheard, while the raging tide

Wrought well the task of death; But 'mid the billows still was seen

The stranger's struggling form; And the meteor flash of his sword might seem

Like a beacon ’mid the storm.


For still, while with his strong right arm

He buffeted the wave,
The other upheld that treasured prize

He would give life to save.
Was then the love of pelf so strong

That e'en in death's dark hour,
The base-born passion could awake

With such resistless power?

No! all earth's gold were dross to him,

Compared with what lay hid,
Through lonely years of changeless woe,

Beneath that casket's lid;
For there was all the mind's rich wealth,

And many a precious gem
That, in after years, he hoped might form

A poet's diadem.
Nobly he struggled till o'erspent,

His nerveless limbs no more
Could bear him on through the waves that rose

Like barriers to the shore;
Yet still he held his long prized wealth,

He saw the wish'd for land-
A moment more, and he was thrown

Upon the rocky strand.
Alas! far better to have died

Where the mighty billows roll,
Than lived till coldness and neglect

Bow'd down his haughty soul :
Such was his dreary lot, at once

His country's pride and shame;
For on Camoen's humble grave alone

Was placed his wreath of fame.

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