Why was their vow for twelve long months deferred?
Why was he not in Priam's bosom slain?

He should have fallen among the slaughtered heaps
Whelmed under Troy. His death had then been just,
When age and infancy alike in vain

Pleaded their weakness; when the heat of conquest,
And horrors of the fight, roused all our rage,
And blindly hurried us through scenes of death.
My fury then was without bounds: but now,
My wrath appeased, must I be cruel still,
And, deaf to all the tender calls of pity,

Like a cool murderer, bathe my hands in blood-
An infant's blood ?-No, prince.-Go, bid the Greeks
Mark out some other victim; my revenge

Has had its fill. What has escaped from Troy,
Shall not be saved to perish in Epirus.

Orest. I need not tell you, sir, Astyanax
Was doomed to death in Troy; nor mention how
The crafty mother saved her darling son:

The Greeks do now but urge their former sentence:
Nor is't the boy, but Hector, they pursue;
The father draws their vengeance on the son:

The father, who so oft in Grecian blood

Has drenched his sword: the father, whom the Greeks

May seek even here.-Prevent them, sir, in time.

Pyr. No let them come; since I was born to wage
Eternal wars.
Let them now turn their arms

On him who conquered for them: let them come,
And in Epirus seek another Troy.

'Twas thus they recompensed my godlike sire;
Thus was Achilles thanked. But, prince, remember,
Their black ingratitude then cost them dear.

VII-LOCHIEL.-Campbell.

LOCHIEL-SEER.

[To explain the following beautiful piece, it may be necessary to mention that Lochiel, a highland chieftain, while on his march to join the standard of the Pretender, was met by one of the highland Seers or prophets, who, having the gift of second sight or prophecy, warns him to return and not incur the certain ruin which awaited the

unfortunate prince and his followers at the battle which took place on the field of Culloden.]

Seer. (With his eyes fixed as though beholding future events.) Lochiel! Lochiel! beware of the day

When the lowlands shall meet thee in battle array!
For a field of the dead rushes on to 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 frantic and far?
'Tis thine, O Glenullin! whose bride shall await,
Like a love lighted watchfire, 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, Scotland, to death and captivity led!

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! gory Culloden so dreadful appear,

Or if

Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight,

This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright.

Seer. Ha! laughest 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 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 clanTheir 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 Scotland 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 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, 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-

gore,

Lochiel. Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale. Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their Like ocean weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore, Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, While a 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.

VIII.-FROM CATILINE.-Croly.

CICERO CATILINE-CETHEGUS-SENATORS LICTORS.

Cicero. Our long debate must close. Take one proof more Of this rebellion. Lucius Catiline

Has been commanded to attend the senate.

He dares not come.

I now demand your votes ;

Is he condemned to exile? (Catiline comes in hastily. All the
senators go over to the other side. Cicero turns to Catiline.)
Here I repeat the charge, to gods and men,
Of treasons manifold;—that, but this day,
He has received despatches from the rebels-
That he has leagued with deputies from Gaul
To seize the province; nay, has levied troops,
And raised his rebel standard ;-that, but now
A meeting of conspirators was held

Under his roof, with mystic rites, and oaths,
Pledged round the body of a murdered slave.
To these he has no answer.

Catiline.

Conscript Fathers!

I do not rise to waste the night in words:
Let that plebeian talk; 'tis not my trade;
But here I stand for right. Let him show proofs,-
For Roman right; though none, it seems, dare stand
To take their share with me. Ay, cluster there,
Cling to your master; judges, Romans, slaves!
His charge is false;-I dare him to his proofs.
You have my answer now! I must be gone.
Cic. These, as I told you, were this evening seized
Within his house. You know them, Catiline?

Cat. Know them! What crimination's there? What tongue Lives in that helm to charge me? Cicero

Go search my house, you may find twenty such;
All fairly struck from brows of barbarous kings,
When you and yours were plotting here in Rome.

I say, go search my house. And is this all?
I scorn to tell you by what chance they came.
Where have I levied troops-tampered with slaves-
Bribed fool or villain, to embark his neck

In this rebellion? Let my actions speak.

Cic. This is his answer! Must I bring more proofs ? Fathers, you know there lives not one of us,

But lives in peril of his midnight sword.

Lists of proscription have been handed round,

In which your general properties are made

Your murderers' hire. Bring in the prisoner. (Enter Cethegus.) Fathers! this stain to his high name and blood,

Came to my house to murder me; and came

Suborned by him.

Cat. (Scornfully.) Cethegus!

Did you say this?

Ceth. Not I. I went to kill

A prating, proud plebeian, whom those fools

Palmed on the consulship.

Cic. And sent by whom?

Ceth. By none. By nothing, but my zeal to purge The senate of yourself, most learned Cicero!

Cic. Fathers of Rome! If man can be convinced

By proof, as clear as daylight, there it stands! (Pointing to the prisoner.)

This man has been arrested at the gates,

Bearing despatches to raise war in Gaul.

Look on these letters! Here's a deep laid plot
To wreck the province: a solemn league

Made with all form and circumstance.

The time

Is desperate, all the slaves are up :-Rome shakes!
The heavens alone can tell how near our graves
We stand even here!-the name of Catiline
Is foremost in the league. He was their king.
Tried and convicted traitor, go from Rome!

Cat.

Come, consecrated lictors! from your thrones,
(To the senate.)

Fling down your sceptres !-take the rod and axe,
And make the murder as you make the law.

Cic.

Lictors, drive the traitor from the temple.
Cat. 'Traitor!' I go-but I return. This-trial!
Here I devote your senate! I've had wrongs,
To stir a fever in the blood of age,