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Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth,
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.
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 eyrie* that beacons the darkness of heaven.
Oh, 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.
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 !
Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock !
But wo to his kindred, and wo to his cause,
When Albin her claymore indignantly draws ;
When her bonnetted chieftains to victory crowd,
Clan-Ranald the dauntless, and Moray the proud;
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array
Seer.-Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day! For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, But 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 blood-hounds, 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:t 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 ?
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 convulsed in his quivering limbs,
And his blood-streaming nostril in angony swims.
Accursed 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,
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,
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.
The Poet and the Alchymist.—New MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
AUTHORS of modern date are wealthy fellows ;
'Tis but to snip his locks they follow
Now the golden-haired Apollo-
Invoking Plutus to puff up the bellows
Of inspiration, they distil
The rhymes and novels which cajole us,
Not from the Heliconian rill,
But from the waters of Pactolus.
Before this golden age of writers,
A Grub-street Garreteer existed,
One of the regular inditers
Of odes and poems to be twisted
Into encomiastic verses,
For patrons who have heavy purses.
Besides the Bellman's rhymes, he had
Others to let, both gay and sad,
All ticketed from A to Izzard ;
And, living by his wits, I need not add,
The rogue was lean as any lizzard.
Like a ropemaker's were his
For still one line
and like his hempen brother,
Kept going backwards all his days.
Hard by his attic lived a Chymist,
Or Alchymist, who had a mighty
Faith in the Elix'ir Vitae;
And though unflattered by the dimmest
Glimpse of success, he still kept groping
And grubbing in his dark vocation,
To find the art of changing metals,
And guineas coin from pans and kettles,
By mystery of transmutation.
Our starving Poet took occasion
To seek this conjuror's abode,
Not with encomiastic ode,
Or laudatory dedication,
But with an offer to impart,
For twenty pounds the secret art,
Which should procure, without the pain
Of metals, chymistry, and fire,
What he so long had sought in vain,
And gratify his heart's desire.
The money paid, our bard was hurried
To the philosopher's sanctorum,
Who, somewhat sublimized and flurried,
Out of his chymical decorum,
Crowed, capered, giggled, seemed to spurn his
Crucibles, retort, and furnace,
And cried as he secured the door,
And carefully put to the shutter,
Now, now, the secret I implore ;
Out with it-speak—discover-utter !"
and solemn look, the poet CriedList-0, list! for thus I shew it :Let this plain truth those ingrates strike,
Who still, though bless’d, new blessings crave, That we may all have what we like, Simply by liking what we have.”.
Extract from a dialogue between a Satiric Poet and his
Friend. 'Tis all a libel, Paxton, Sir, will say:-
Poet. Not yet, my friend ! to-morrow, faith, it may;
And for that very cause I print to-day.
How should I fret to mangle every line,
In reverence to the sins of thirty-nine !
Vice, with such giant strides, comes on amain,
Invention strives to be before in vain ;
Feign what I will, and paint it e'er so strong
Some rising genius sins up to my song.
F. Yet none but you by name the guilty lash;
Even Guthry saves half Newgate by a dash.
Spare then the person, and expose the vice.
P. How! not condemn the sharper, but the dice!
Come on then, Sātire! general, unconfined,
Spread thy broad wing, and souse on all the kind.
Ye statesmen, priests, of one religion all!
Ye tradesmen, vile, in army, court, or hall!
Ye reverend atheists !-F. Scandal! name them,—who?
P. Why that's the thing you bid me not to do.
Who starved a sister,—who forswore a debt
I never named; the town's inquiring yet.
The poisoning dame-F. You mean-P. I don't-F. You do.
P. See, now, I keep the secret, and not you !
The bribing statesman-F. Hold! too high you go.
P. The bribed elector-F. There you stoop too low.
P. I fain would please you if I knew with what;
Tell me, which knave is lawful game, which not?
Must great offenders, once escaped the crown,
Like royal harts, be never more run down?
Admit your law to spare the knight requires,
As beasts of nature may we hunt the squires ?
Suppose I censure—you know what I mean-
To save a bishop, may I name a dean?
F. A dean, Sir ? no; his fortune is not made,
You hurt a man that's rising in the trade.
P. If not the tradesman who set up to-day,
Much less the prentice who to-morrow may.
Down, down, proud Sātire ! though a realm be spoiled,
Arraign no mightier thief than wretched Wild.
Or, if a court, or country's made a job,
Go, drench a pickpocket, and join the mob.
But, Sir, I beg you, (for the love of Vice !)
The matter's weighty, pray consider twice;
Have you less pity for the needy cheat,
and friendless villain, than the great ?
Alas! the small discredit of a bribe
Scarce hurts the lawyer, but undoes the scribe.
Then better, sure, it charity becomes
To tax directors, who (thank God) have plums;
Still better ministers; or, if the thing
May pinch even there—why lay it on a king.
ť. Stop! Stop!P. Must Sātire, then, nor rise, nor fall? Speak out, and bid me blame no rogues at all. F. Yes, strike that Wild, I'll justify the blow.
P. Strike ?—Why the man was hanged ten years ago.
Who now that obsolete example fears ?
Even Peter trembles only for his ears.
F. What, always Peter ? Peter thinks
You make men desperate, if they once are bad.
But why so few commended ?—P. Not so fierce-
You find the virtue, and I'll find the verse.
But random praise—the task can ne'er be done;
Each mother asks it for her booby son,
Each widow asks it for the best of men,
For him she weeps, for him she weds again.
Praise cannot stoop, like Sātire, to the ground;
be hanged, but not be crowned. No power the Muse's friendship can command, No power, when Virtue claims it, can withstand.
What are you thinking ?-F. Faith, the thought's no sin, I think
friends are out, and would be in. P. If merely to come in, Sir, they go out, The way they take is strangely round about.
F. They, too, may be corrupted, you'll allow ?
P. I only call those knaves who are so now.
Is that too little ?—Come, then, I'll comply-
Spirit of Arnal ! aid me while I lie.
Cobham's a coward, Polwarth is a slave,
And Lyttleton, a dark, designing knave.
St. John has ever been a mighty fool-
But, let me add, Sir Robert's mighty dull,
Has never made a friend in private life,
And was, besides, a tyrant to his wife.-