Theodric; a Domestic Tale

’Twas sunset, and the “Ranz des Vaches” was sung,And lights were o’er the Helvetian mountains flung,That gave the glacier tops their richest glow,And tinged the lakes like molten gold below.Warmth flushed the wonted regions of the storm,Where, Phœnix-like, you saw the eagle’s form,That high in Heaven’s vermilion wheeled and soared.Woods nearer frowned, and cataracts dashed and roared,From heights browsed by the bounding bouquetin;Herds tinkling roamed the long-drawn vales between,And hamlets glittered white, and gardens flourished green.’Twas transport to inhale the bright sweet air!The mountain-bee was revelling in its glare,And roving with his minstrelsy acrossThe scented wild weeds, and enamelled moss.Earth’s features so harmoniously were linked,She seemed one great glad form, with life instinct,That felt Heaven’s ardent breath, and smiled belowIts flush of love, with consentaneous glow.

A Gothic church was near; the spot aroundWas beautiful, even though sepulchral ground;For there nor yew nor cypress spread their gloom,But roses blossomed by each rustic tomb.Amidst them one of spotless marble shone—A maiden’s grave—and ’twas inscribed thereon,That young and loved she died whose dust was there:

“Yes,” said my comrade, “young she died, and fair!Grace formed her, and the soul of gladness playedOnce in the blue eyes of that mountain-maid:Her fingers witched the chords they passed along,And her lips seemed to kiss the soul in song:Yet wooed, and worshipped as she was, till fewAspired to hope, ’twas sadly, strangely true,That heart, the martyr of its fondness, burnedAnd died of love that could not be returned.

“Her father dwelt where yonder castle shinesO’er clustering trees and terrace-mantling vines.As gay as ever, the laburnum’s prideWaves o’er each walk where she was wont to glide,—And still the garden whence she graced her brow,As lovely blooms, though trod by strangers now.How oft from yonder window o’er the lake,Her song of wild Helvetian swell and shakeHas made the rudest fisher bend his ear,And rest enchanted on his oar to hear!Thus bright, accomplished, spirited, and bland,Well-born, and wealthy for that simple land,Why had no gallant native youth the artTo win so warm—so exquisite a heart?She, midst these rocks inspired with feelings strongBy mountain-freedom—music—fancy—song,Herself descended from the brave in arms,And conscious of romance-inspiring charms,Dreamt of Heroic beings; hoped to findSome extant spirit of chivalric kind;And scorning wealth, looked cold e’en on the claimOf manly worth, that lacked the wreath of fame.

“Her younger brother, sixteen summers old,And much her likeness both in mind and mould,Had gone, poor boy! in soldiership to shine,And bore an Austrian banner on the Rhine.’Twas when, alas! our Empire’s evil starShed all the plagues, without the pride, of war;When patriots bled, and bitterer anguish crossedOur brave, to die in battles foully lost.The youth wrote home the rout of many a day;Yet still he said, and still with truth could say,One corps had ever made a valiant stand,—The corps in which he served—Theodric’s band.His fame, forgotten chief, is now gone by,Eclipsed by brighter orbs in glory’s sky;Yet once it shone, and veterans, when they showOur fields of battle twenty years ago,Will tell you feats his small brigade performed,In charges nobly faced and trenches stormed.Time was, when songs were chanted to his fame,And soldiers loved the march that bore his name:The zeal of martial hearts was at his call,And that Helvetian, Udolph’s, most of all.’Twas touching, when the storm of war blew wild,To see a blooming boy,—almost a child,—Spur fearless at his leader’s words and signs,Brave death in reconnoitring hostile lines,And speed each task, and tell each message clear,In scenes where war-trained men were stunned with fear.

“Theodric praised him, and they wept for joyIn yonder house,—when letters from the boyThanked Heaven for life, and more, to use his phrase,Than twenty lives—his own Commander’s praise.Then followed glowing pages, blazoning forthThe fancied image of his Leader’s worth,With such hyperbolés of youthful styleAs made his parents dry their tears and smile:But differently far his words impressedA wondering sister’s well-believing breast;—She caught the illusion, blest Theodric’s name,And wildly magnified his worth and fame;Rejoicing life’s reality containedOne, heretofore, her fancy had but feigned,Whose love could make her proud;—and time and chanceTo passion raised that day-dream of Romance.

“Once, when with hasty charge of horse and manOur arrière-guard had checked the Gallic van,Theodric, visiting the outposts, foundHis Udolph wounded, weltering on the ground:—Sore crushed,—half-swooning, half-upraised, he lay,And bent his brow, fair boy! and grasped the clay.His fate moved e’en the common soldier’s ruth—Theodric succoured him; nor left the youthTo vulgar hands, but brought him to his tent,And lent what aid a brother would have lent.

“Meanwhile, to save his kindred half the smartThe war-gazette’s dread blood-roll might impart,He wrote the event to them; and soon could tellOf pains assuaged and symptoms auguring well,And last of all, prognosticating cure,Enclosed the leech’s vouching signature.

“Their answers, on whose pages you might noteThat tears had fallen, whilst trembling fingers wrote,Gave boundless thanks for benefits conferred,Of which the boy, in secret, sent them word,Whose memory Time, they said, would never blot;But which the giver had himself forgot

“In time, the stripling, vigorous and healed,Resumed his barb and banner in the field,And bore himself right soldier-like, till nowThe third campaign had manlier bronzed his brow,When peace, though but a scanty pause for breath,—A curtain-drop between the acts of death,—A check in frantic war’s unfinished game,Yet dearly bought, and direly welcome, came.The camp broke up, and Udolph left his chiefAs with a son’s or younger brother’s grief:But journeying home, how rapt his spirits rose!How light his footsteps crushed St. Gothard’s snows!How dear seemed e’en the waste and wild Shreckhorn,Though wrapt in clouds, and frowning as in scornUpon a downward world of pastoral charms;Where, by the very smell of dairy-farms,And fragrance from the mountain-herbage blown,Blindfold his native hills he could have known!

“His coming down yon lake,—his boat in viewOf windows where love’s fluttering kerchief flew,—The arms spread out for him—the tears that burst,(’Twas Julia’s, ’twas his sister’s, met him first:)—Their pride to see war’s medal at his breast,And all their rapture’s greeting, may be guessed.

“Ere long, his bosom triumphed to unfoldA gift he meant their gayest room to hold,—The picture of a friend in warlike dress;And who it was he first bade Julia guess.‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘’twas he, methought in sleep,When you were wounded, told me not to weep.’The painting long in that sweet mansion drewRegards its living semblance little knew.

“Meanwhile Theodric, who had years beforeLearnt England’s tongue, and loved her classic lore,A glad enthusiast now explored the land,Where Nature, Freedom, Art, smile hand in hand:Her women fair; her men robust for toil;Her vigorous souls, high-cultured as her soil;Her towns, where civic independence flingsThe gauntlet down to senates, courts, and kings;Her works of art, resembling magic’s powers,Her mighty fleets, and learning’s beauteous bowers.—These he had visited, with wonder’s smile,And scarce endured to quit so fair an isle.But how our fates from unmomentous thingsMay rise, like rivers out of little springs!A trivial chance postponed his parting day,And public tidings caused, in that delay,An English jubilee. ’Twas a glorious sight;At eve, stupendous London, clad in light,Poured out triumphant multitudes to gaze;Youth, age, wealth, penury, smiling in the blaze;The illumined atmosphere was warm and bland,And Beauty’s groups, the fairest of the land,Conspicuous, as in some wide festive room,In open chariots passed with pearl and plume.Amidst them he remarked a lovelier mienThan e’er his thoughts had shaped, or eyes had seen;The throng detained her till he reined his steed,And, ere the beauty passed, had time to readThe motto and the arms her carriage bore.Led by that clue, he left not England’s shoreTill he had known her: and to know her wellProlonged, exalted, bound, enchantment’s spell;For with affections warm, intense, refined,She mixed such calm and holy strength of mind,That, like Heaven’s image in the smiling brook,Celestial peace was pictured in her look.Hers was the brow, in trials unperplexed,That cheered the sad, and tranquillised the vexed;She studied not the meanest to eclipse,And yet the wisest listened to her lips;She sang not, knew not Music’s magic skill,But yet her voice had tones that swayed the will.He sought—he won her—and resolved to makeHis future home in England for her sake.

“Yet, ere they wedded, matters of concernTo Cæsar’s court commanded his return,A season’s space,—and on his Alpine way,He reached those bowers, that rang with joy that day:The boy was half beside himself,—the sire,All frankness, honour, and Helvetian fire,Of speedy parting would not hear him speak;And tears bedewed and brightened Julia’s cheek.

“Thus, loth to wound their hospitable pride,A month he promised with them to abide;As blithe he trode the mountain-sward as they,And felt his joy make e’en the young more gay.How jocund was their breakfast-parlour fannedBy yon blue water’s breath,—their walks how bland!Fair Julia seemed her brother’s softened sprite—A gem reflecting Nature’s purest light,—And with her graceful wit there was inwroughtA wildly sweet unworldliness of thought,That almost child-like to his kindness drew,And twin with Udolph in his friendship grew.But did his thoughts to love one moment range?—No! he who had loved Constance could not change!Besides, till grief betrayed her undesigned,The unlikely thought could scarcely reach his mind,That eyes so young on years like his should beamUnwooed devotion back for pure esteem.

“True, she sang to his very soul, and broughtThose trains before him of luxuriant thoughtWhich only Music’s heaven-born art can bring,To sweep across the mind with angel wing.Once, as he smiled amidst that waking trance,She paused o’ercome: he thought it might be chance,And, when his first suspicions dimly stoleRebuked them back like phantoms from his soul.But when he saw his caution gave her pain,And kindness brought suspense’s rack again,Faith, honour, friendship, bound him to unmaskTruths which her timid fondness feared to ask.

“And yet with gracefully ingenuous powerHer spirit met the explanatory hour;—Even conscious beauty brightened in her eyes,That told she knew their love no vulgar prize;And pride, like that of one more woman-grown,Enlarged her mien, enriched her voice’s tone.’Twas then she struck the keys, and music madeThat mocked all skill her hand had e’er displayed:Inspired and warbling, rapt from things around,She looked the very Muse of magic sound,Painting in sound the forms of joy and woe,Until the mind’s eye saw them melt and glow.Her closing strain composed and calm she played,And sang no words to give its pathos aid;But grief seemed lingering in its lengthened swell,And like so many tears the trickling touches fell.Of Constance then she heard Theodric speak,And steadfast smoothness still possessed her cheek;But when he told her how he oft had plannedOf old a journey to their mountain land,That might have brought him hither years before,‘Ah! then,’ she cried, ‘you knew not England’s shore;And, had you come,—and wherefore did you not?’‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘it would have changed our lot!’Then burst her tears through pride’s restraining bands,And with her handkerchief, and both her hands,She hid her face and wept.—Contrition stungTheodric for the tears his words had wrung.‘But no,’ she cried, ‘unsay not what you’ve said,Nor grudge one prop on which my pride is stayed;To think I could have merited your faith,Shall be my solace even unto death?’—‘Julia,’ Theodric said, with purposed lookOf firmness, ‘my reply deserved rebuke;But by your pure and sacred peace of mind,And by the dignity of womankind,Swear that when I am gone you’ll do your bestTo chase this dream of fondness from your breast.’

“The abrupt appeal electrified her thought;—She looked to Heaven, as if its aid she sought,Dried hastily the tear-drops from her cheek,And signified the vow she could not speak.

“Ere long he communed with her mother mild:‘Alas!’ she said, ‘I warned—conjured my child,And grieved for this affection from the first,But like fatality it has been nursed;For when her filled eyes on your picture fixed,And when your name in all she spoke was mixed,’Twas hard to chide an over-grateful mind!Then each attempt a likelier choice to findMade only fresh-rejected suitors grieve,And Udolph’s pride—perhaps her own—believeThat could she meet, she might enchant e’en you.You came.—I augured the event, ’tis true,But how was Udolph’s mother to excludeThe guest that claimed our boundless gratitude?And that unconscious you had cast a spellOn Julia’s peace, my pride refused to tell:Yet in my child’s illusion I have seen,Believe me well, how blameless you have been:Nor can it cancel, howsoe’er it end,Our debt of friendship to our boy’s best friend.’At night he parted with the aged pair;At early morn rose Julia to prepareThe last repast her hands for him should make,And Udolph to convoy him o’er the lake.The parting was to her such bitter grief,That of her own accord she made it brief;But, lingering at her window, long surveyedHis boat’s last glimpses melting into shade.

“Theodric sped to Austria, and achievedHis journey’s object. Much was he relievedWhen Udolph’s letters told that Julia’s mindHad borne his loss firm, tranquil, and resigned.He took the Rhenish route to England, highElate with hopes, fulfilled their ecstacy,And interchanged with Constance’s own breathThe sweet eternal vows that bound their faith.

“To paint that being to a grovelling mindWere like portraying pictures to the blind.’Twas needful e’en infectiously to feelHer temper’s fond and firm and gladsome zeal,To share existence with her, and to gainSparks from her love’s electrifying chain,Of that pure pride, which lessening to her breastLife’s ills, gave all its joys a treble zest,Before the mind completely understoodThat mighty truth—how happy are the good!—

“E’en when her light forsook him, it bequeathedEnnobling sorrow; and her memory breathedA sweetness that survived her living daysAs odorous scents outlast the censer’s blaze.

“Or if a trouble dimmed their golden joy,’Twas outward dross, and not infused alloy:Their home knew but affection’s looks and speech—A little Heaven, above dissension’s reach.But midst her kindred there was strife and gall;Save one congenial sister, they were allSuch foils to her bright intellect and grace,As if she had engrossed the virtue of her race.Her nature strove the unnatural feuds to heal,Her wisdom made the weak to her appeal;And though the wounds she cured were soon unclosed,Unwearied still her kindness interposed.

“Oft on those errands though she went, in vain,And home, a blank without her, gave him pain,He bore her absence for its pious end.—But public grief his spirit came to bend;For war laid waste his native land once more,And German honour bled at every pore.Oh! were he there, he thought, to rally backOne broken band, or perish in the wrack!Nor think that Constance sought to move or meltHis purpose: like herself she spoke and felt:—‘Your fame is mine, and I will bear all woeExcept its loss!—but with you let me goTo arm you for, to embrace you from the fight;Harm will not reach me—hazards will delight!’He knew those hazards better; one campaignIn England he conjured her to remain,And she expressed assent, although her heartIn secret had resolved they should not part.

“How oft the wisest on misfortune’s shelvesAre wrecked by errors most unlike themselves!That little fault, that fraud of love’s romance,That plan’s concealment, wrought their whole mischance.He knew it not preparing to embark,But felt extinct his comfort’s latest spark,When, midst those numbered days, she made repairAgain to kindred worthless of her care.’Tis true she said the tidings she would writeWould make her absence on his heart sit light;But, haplessly, revealed not yet her plan,And left him in his home a lonely man.

“Thus damped in thoughts, he mused upon the past:’Twas long since he had heard from Udolph last,And deep misgivings on his spirit fell,That all with Udolph’s household was not well.’Twas that too true prophetic mood of fearThat augurs griefs inevitably near,Yet makes them not less startling to the mind,When come. Least looked-for then of human kind,His Udolph (’twas, he thought at first, his sprite)With mournful joy that morn surprised his sight.How changed was Udolph! Scarce Theodric durstInquire his tidings,—he revealed the worst.‘At first,’ he said, ‘as Julia bade me tell,She bore her fate high-mindedly and well,Resolved from common eyes her grief to hide,And from the world’s compassion saved our pride;But still her health gave way to secret woe,And long she pined—for broken hearts die slow!Her reason went, but came returning, likeThe warning of her death-hour—soon to strike;And all for which she now, poor sufferer! sighs,Is once to see Theodric ere she dies.Why should I come to tell you this caprice?Forgive me! for my mind has lost its peace.I blame myself, and ne’er shall cease to blame,That my insane ambition for the nameOf brother to Theodric, founded allThose high-built hopes that crushed her by their fall.I made her slight a mother’s counsel sage,But now my parents droop with grief and age;And though my sister’s eyes mean no rebuke,They overwhelm me with their dying look.The journey’s long, but you are full of ruth;And she who shares your heart, and knows its truth,Has faith in your affection, far aboveThe fear of a poor dying object’s love.’‘She has, my Udolph,’ he replied, ‘’tis true;And oft we talk of Julia—oft of you.’Their converse came abruptly to a close;For scarce could each his troubled looks compose,When visitants, to Constance near akin(In all but traits of soul), were ushered in.They brought not her, nor midst their kindred bandThe sister who alone, like her, was bland;But said—and smiled to see it gave him pain—That Constance would a fortnight yet remain.Vexed by their tidings, and the haughty viewThey cast on Udolph as the youth withdrew,Theodric blamed his Constance’s intent.—The demons went, and left him as they went,To read, when they were gone beyond recall,A note from her loved hand, explaining all.She said, that with their house she only staidThat parting peace might with them all be made;But prayed for love to share his foreign life,And shun all future chance of kindred strife.He wrote with speed, his soul’s consent to say:The letter missed her on her homeward way.In six hours Constance was within his arms:Moved, flushed, unlike her wonted calm of charms,And breathless—with uplifted hands outspread—Burst into tears upon his neck, and said,—‘I knew that those who brought your message laughedWith poison of their own to point the shaft;And this my one kind sister thought, yet lothConfessed she feared ’twas true you had been wroth.But here you are, and smile on me: my painIs gone, and Constance is herself again.’His ecstasy, it may be guessed, was much:Yet pain’s extreme and pleasure’s seemed to touch.What pride! embracing beauty’s perfect mould;What terror! lest his few rash words, mistold,Had agonised her pulse to fever’s heat:But calmed again so soon it healthful beat,And such sweet tones were in her voice’s sound,Composed herself, she breathed composure round.

“Fair being! with what sympathetic graceShe heard, bewailed, and pleaded Julia’s case;Implored he would her dying wish attend,‘And go,’ she said, ‘to-morrow with your friend;I’ll wait for your return on England’s shore,And then we’ll cross the deep, and part no more.’

“To-morrow both his soul’s compassion drewTo Julia’s call, and Constance urged anewThat not to heed her now would be to bindA load of pain for life upon his mind.He went with Udolph—from his Constance went—Stifling, alas! a dark presentimentSome ailment lurked, e’en whilst she smiled, to mockHis fears of harm from yester-morning’s shock.Meanwhile a faithful page he singled out,To watch at home, and follow straight his route,If aught of threatened change her health should show:With Udolph then he reached the house of woe.

“That winter’s eve how darkly Nature’s browScowled on the scenes it lights so lovely now!The tempest, raging o’er the realms of ice,Shook fragments from the rifted precipice;And whilst their falling echoed to the wind,The wolf’s long howl in dismal discord joined,While white yon water’s foam was raised in cloudsThat whirled like spirits wailing in their shrouds:Without was Nature’s elemental din—And beauty died, and friendship wept, within!

“Sweet Julia, though her fate was finished half,Still knew him—smiled on him with feeble laugh—And blessed him, till she drew her latest sigh!But lo! while Udolph’s bursts of agony,And age’s tremulous wailings, round him rose,What accents pierced him deeper yet than those?’Twas tidings by his English messenger,Of Constance—brief and terrible they were.She still was living when the page set outFrom home, but whether now was left in doubt.Poor Julia! saw he then thy death’s relief—Stunned into stupor more than wrung with grief?It was not strange; for in the human breastTwo master-passions cannot co-exist,And that alarm which now usurped his brainShut out not only peace, but other pain.’Twas fancying Constance underneath the shroudThat covered Julia made him first weep loud,And tear himself away from them that wept.Fast hurrying homeward, night nor day he slept,Till, launched at sea, he dreamt that his soul’s saintClung to him on a bridge of ice, pale, faint,O’er cataracts of blood. Awake, he blessedThe shore; nor hope left utterly his breast,Till reaching home, terrific omen! thereThe straw-laid street preluded his despair—The servant’s look—the table that revealedHis letter sent to Constance last, still sealed—Though speech and hearing left him, told too clearThat he had now to suffer—not to fear.He felt as if he ne’er should cease to feel—A wretch live-broken on misfortune’s wheel;Her death’s cause—he might make his peace with Heaven,Absolved from guilt, but never self-forgiven.

“The ocean has its ebbings—so has grief;’Twas vent to anguish, if ’twas not relief,To lay his brow e’en on her death-cold cheek.Then first he heard her one kind sister speak:She bade him, in the name of Heaven, forbearWith self-reproach to deepen his despair:‘’Twas blame,’ she said, ‘I shudder to relate,But none of yours, that caused our darling’s fate;Her mother (must I call her such?) foresaw,Should Constance leave the land, she would withdrawOur House’s charm against the world’s neglect—The only gem that drew it some respect.Hence, when you went, she came and vainly spokeTo change her purpose—grew incensed, and brokeWith execrations from her kneeling child.Start not! your angel from her knee rose mild,Feared that she should not long the scene outlive,Yet bade e’en you the unnatural one forgive.Till then her ailment had been slight or none;But fast she drooped, and fatal pains came on:Foreseeing their event, she dictatedAnd signed these words for you.’ The letter said—

“‘Theodric, this is destiny aboveOur power to baffle; bear it then, my love!Rave not to learn the usage I have borne,For one true sister left me not forlorn;And though you’re absent in another land,Sent from me by my own well-meant command,Your soul, I know, as firm is knit to mineAs these clasped hands in blessing you now join:Shape not imagined horrors in my fate—E’en now my sufferings are not very great;And when your grief’s first transports shall subsideI call upon your strength of soul and prideTo pay my memory, if ’tis worth the debt,Love’s glorying tribute—not forlorn regret:I charge my name with power to conjure upReflection’s balmy, not its bitter cup.My pardoning angel, at the gates of Heaven,Shall look not more regard than you have givenTo me; and our life’s union has been cladIn smiles of bliss as sweet as life e’er had.Shall gloom be from such bright remembrance cast?Shall bitterness outflow from sweetness past?No! imaged in the sanctuary of your breast,There let me smile, amidst high thoughts at rest;And let contentment on your spirit shine,As if its peace were still a part of mine:For if you war not proudly with your pain,For you I shall have worse than lived in vain.But I conjure your manliness to bearMy loss with noble spirit—not despair:I ask you by our love to promise this,And kiss these words, where I have left a kiss,—The latest from my living lips for yours.’—

“Words that will solace him while life endures:For though his spirit from affliction’s surgeCould ne’er to life, as life had been, emerge,Yet still that mind whose harmony elateRang sweetness, e’en beneath the crush of fate,—That mind in whose regard all things were placedIn views that softened them, or lights that graced,That soul’s example could not but dispenseA portion of its own blessed influence;Invoking him to peace, and that self-swayWhich Fortune cannot give, nor take away:And though he mourned her long, ’twas with such woeAs if her spirit watched him still below.”See Notes at the end of the Volume.

See Notes at the end of the Volume.

Lochiel, Lochiel! beware of the dayWhen 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, 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!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 outspeeding, he rodeCompanionless, 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 blastThose embers, like stars from the firmament cast?’Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully drivenFrom his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven.Oh, crested Lochiel! the peerless in might,Whose banners arise on the battlement’s 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,Clanronald 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,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 ringWith 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?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 dispelYon 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——

——Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale:For never shall Albin a destiny meet,So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat.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

See Notes at the end of the Volume.

The Gaelic appellation of Scotland,—more particularly the Highlands.