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18 All the kings of the nations, all of them,

Lie down in glory, each in his own sepulchre : 19 But thou art cast out of the grave, as the tree abominated ;*

20 Thou shalt not be joined unto them in burial;

Because thou hast destroyed thy country, thou hast slain thy people.

The seed of evil doers shall never be renowned. 21 Prepare ye slaughter for his children, for the iniquity of their fathers;

Clothed with the slain, with the pierced by the sword, With them that go down to the stones of the pit; as a trodden carcass.


22 For I will arise against them, saith Jehovah God of Hosts: And I will cut off from Babylon the name, and the remnant; And the son, and the son's son, saith Jehovah.

23 And I will make it an inheritance for the porcupine, and

Lest they rise, and possess the earth; and fill the face of the world with cities.

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Jehovah God of Hosts hath sworn, saying:

Surely as I have devised, so shall it be; And as I have purposed, that thing shall stand: 25 To crush the Assyrian in my land, and to trample him on my mountains.

pools of water;

And I will plunge it in the miry gulf of destruction, saith Jehovah God of Hosts.

Then shall his yoke depart from off them;

And his burthen shall be removed from off their shoulder. 26 This is the decree, which is determined on the whole



And this is the hand, which is stretched out over all the


27 For Jehovah God of Hosts hath decreed; and who shall

disannul it?

And it is his hand, that is stretched out; and who shall turn it back?

That is, as an abomination and detestation; such as the tree is, on which a malefactor has been hanged. "It is written, saith Saint Paul, Gala. iii. 13. cursed is every man that hangeth on a tree :" from Deut. xxi. 23. The Jews therefore held also as accursed and polluted the tree itself on which a malefactor had been executed, or on which he had been hanged after having been put to death by stoning.



Lochiel's Warning.-CAMPBELL.

Lochiel was the chief of the warlike clan of the Camerons; and one of the most prominent, in respect to power and influence, among the Highland chieftains. He attached himself to the cause of Charles Stuart, called the Pretender, from the claim that he made to the British throne. In the following piece, Lochiel is supposed to be marching, with the warriours of his clan, to join the standard which Charles had raised among the Highlands in his invasion of Scotland in 1745. On his way he is met by a Seer or Wigard, who, having, according to the popular superstition, the gift of second sight, or prophecy, forewarns him of the disastrous event of the Pretender's enterprise, and exhorts him to return home, and not be involved in the certain destruction that awaited the cause and the followers of Charles, and which afterwards fell upon them in the battle of Culloden.

Seer, Lochiel.

Seer. 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;
Wo, wo 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 frantick and far?
'Tis thine, oh 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!
Oh 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.

Lochiel. 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.

Seer. Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn!

* The Gaelic appellation of Scotlari, more particularly the High


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 havock 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,
Clamanald 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:*
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.

Alluding to the perilous escape of Charles from the west of Scot


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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 agony 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 ship 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 ecomiastick 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 ways;
For still one line upon another
He spun, and like his hempen brother,
Kept going backwards all his days.

Hard by his attick lived a Chymist,
Or Alchymist, who had a mighty
Faith in the Elixir Vitae;
And though unflattered by the dimmest
Glimpse of success, he still kept groping
And grubbing in his dark vocation,
Stupidly hoping,

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 encomiastick 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 secure the door,

And carefully put to the shutter, “Now, now, the secret I implore ;

Out with it-speak-discover-utter!"

With grave and solemn look, the poet
Cried- "List-O, 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."

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