The state accords her worthiest servants; nay
Nobility itself I guarantee thee,

So that thou art sincere and penitent.

Bert. I have thought again: it must not be-I love theeThou knowest it-that I stand here is the proof,

Not least, though last; but having done my duty

By thee, I now must do it by my country!
Farewell-we meet no more in life!-farewell.

BYRON.

LOCHIEL AND WIZARD.-LOCHIEL'S WARNING.

Wiz. 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 scatter'd in flight.
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, O 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 o'er Culloden shall wave,
Culloden! that reeks with the blood of the brave.

Or,

Loch. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer! if Culloden so dreadful appear,

gory

Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight,

This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright.

Wiz. Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn ! Say, rush'd the bold eagle exultingly forth,

From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the north? Lo! the death-shot of foeman 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 eyry, that beacons the darkness of heaven.
O 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.
Loch. False Wizard, avaunt! I have marshall'd 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,
Clanranald the dauntless, and Moray the proud,
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array-

Wiz. 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!

sight;

'Tis finish'd. Their thunders are hush'd 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,
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-

Loch. Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale: For never shall Albin a destiny meet,

So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat.

Tho' my perishing ranks should be strew'd in their gore, Like ocean-weeds heap'd 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 face to the foe!
And leaving in battle no blot on his name,

Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of fame.

CAMPBELL.

MANFRED.

Enter CHAMOIS HUNTER and MANFRED.

C. Hunter. No, no-yet pause-thou must not yet go forth :

Thy mind and body are alike unfit

To trust each other, for some hours, at least ;
When thou art better, I will be thy guide-
But whither?

Man. It imports not: I do know

My route full well, and need no further guidance.
C. Hunter. Thy garb and gait bespeak thee of high
lineage-

One of the many chiefs, whose castled crags
Look o'er the lower valleys-which of these
May call thee lord? I only know their portals;
My way of life leads me but rarely down

To bask by the huge hearths of those old halls,

Carousing with the vassals; but the paths,

Which step from out our mountains to their doors,
I know from childhood—which of these is thine?
Man. No matter.

C. Hunter. Well, sir, pardon me the question, And be of better cheer. Come, taste my wine; "Tis of an ancient vintage: many a day

"T has thaw'd my veins among our glaciers, now
Let it do thus for thine. - Come pledge me fairly.
Man. Away, away! there's blood upon the brim !
Will it, then, never-never sink in the earth?

C. Hunter. What dost thou mean? thy senses wander from thee.

Man. I say, 'tis blood-my blood! the pure warm stream Which ran in the veins of my fathers, and in ours When we were in our youth, and had one heart, And loved each other as we should not love,

And this was shed; but still it rises up

Colouring the clouds, that shut me out from heaven,
Where thou art not-and I shall never be..

C. Hunter. Man of strange words, and some half maddening sin,

Which makes thee people vacancy, whate'er

Thy dread and sufferance be, there's comfort yet-
The aid of holy men, and heavenly patience—

Man. Patience and patience! Hence-that word was made

For brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey; :
Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine,-
I am not of thy order.

C. Hunter. Thanks to heaven!

I would not be of thine for the free fame

Of William Tell; but whatsoe'er thine ill,

It must be borne, and these wild starts are useless.
Man. Do I not bear it? Look on me I live.
C. Hunter. This is convulsion, and no healthful life.
Man. I tell thee, man! I have lived many years,
Many long years, but they are nothing now
To those which I must number: ages-ages-
Space and eternity-and consciousness,

With the fierce thirst of death-and still unslaked!

C. Hunter. Why, on thy brow the seal of middle age Hath scarce been set; I am thine elder far.

Man. Think'st thou existence doth depend on time ?
It doth; but actions are our epochs: mine
Have made my days and nights imperishable,
Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore
Innumerable atoms; and one desert,

Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break,
But nothing rests, save carcasses and wrecks,
Rocks, and the salt surf weeds of bitterness.

C. Hunter. Alas! he's mad-but yet I must not leave him.

Man. I would I were-for then the things I see Would be but a distempered dream.

C. Hunter. What is it

That thou dost see, or think thou look'st upon ?
Man. Myself, and thee-a peasant of the Alps-
Thy humble virtues, hospitable home,

And spirit-patient, pious, proud, and free ;
Thy self-respect, grafted on innocent thoughts;
Thy days of health, and nights of sleep; thy toils,
By danger dignified, yet guiltless; hopes
Of cheerful old age and a quiet grave,
With cross and garland over its green turf,
And thy grandchildren's love for epitaphs;
This do I see-and then I look within

It matters not-my soul was scorched already!

C. Hunter. And would'st thou then exchange thy lot for mine?

Man. No, friend! I would not wrong thee, nor exchange My lot with living being: I can bear

However wretchedly, 'tis still to bear

In life what others could not brook to dream,

But perish in their slumber.

C. Hunter. And with this

This cautious feeling for another's pain,

Canst thou be black with evil? Say not so.

Can one of gentle thoughts have wreaked revenge
Upon his enemies?

Man. Oh! no, no, no!

My injuries came down on those who loved me