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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 bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Clanranald 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 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! Now, in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my
Rise! rise ye wild tempests, and cover his flight! 'Tis finish’d. 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, banish’d, 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,
* Alluding to the perilous escape of Charles from the West of Scotland.
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: For never shall Albin a destiny meet, So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat. Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in Like ocean-weeds heaped on the turf-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.
And darker yet shall be the flow
sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulphurous canopy. The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave! And charge with all thy chivalry! few shall part where
meet! The snow shall be their winding sheet, And every
turf beneath their feet, Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.*
*The above poem has been variously printed in different editions: the Editor has chosen the reading he considers most spirited and ela egant..
ANTONY'S ORATION OVER CESAR'S BODY.
SHAKSPEARE. Friends, Romans, Countrymen! Lend me your ears; I come to bury Cesar, not to praise him. The evil that men do, lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones: So let it be with Cesar! Noble Brutus Hath told
Cesar was ambitious:
He was my friend, faithful and just to me:
Ambition should be made of sterner stuff;
But yesterday, the word of Cesar might
all know, are honorable men. I will not do them wrong—I rather choose To wrong the dead, to wrong myself and you, Than I will wrong such honourable men. But here's a parchment with the seal of Cesar; I found it in his closet; 'tis his will: Let but the commons hear this testament, (Which, pardon me, I do not mean to read) And they would go and kiss dead Cesar's wounds. And dip their napkins in his sacred bloodYea, beg a hair of him for memory, And, dying, mention it within their wills, Bequeathing it, as a rich legacy, Unto their issue.
If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle: I remember The first time ever Cesar put it on, 'Twas on a summer's evening in his tent; That day he overcame the NerviiLook! in this place ran Cassius' dagger through
See, what a rent the envious Casca made:
here! Here is himself, marr'd, as you see, with traitors.
Good friends, Sweet friends, let me not stir you up To such a sudden flood of mutiny. They, that have done this deed, are honourable; What private griefs they have, alas, I know not, That made them do it; they are wise and honourable, And, will no doubt, with reason answer you. I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts; I am no orator, as Brutus is; But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man, That love my friend—and that they know full well That gave me public leave to speak of him. For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, Action, nor utterance, nor power of speech, To stir men's blood- I only speak right on: I tell you that which you yourselves do knowShow you sweet Cesar's wounds, poor, poor dumb
mouths, And bid them speak for me. But, were I Brutus, And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue In every wound of Cesar, that should move The stones of Rome to rise in mutiny.