Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:

Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:-do I wake or sleep?

John Keats.

128

THE RISING OF THE CLANS

THERE is mist on the mountain and night on the
vale,

But more dark is the sleep of the sons of the Gael.
A stranger commanded,-it sunk on the land,
It has frozen each heart and benumbed every hand!

The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust,
The bloodless claymore is but reddened with rust;
On the hill or the glen if a gun should appear,
It is only to war with the heath-cock or deer.

The deeds of our sires if our bards should rehearse,
Let a blush or a blow be the meed of their verse!
Be mute every string, and be hushed every tone,
That shall bid us remember the fame that is flown.

But the dark hours of night and of slumber are
past;

The morn on our mountains is dawning at last;
Glenaladale's peaks are illumed with the rays,
And the streams of Glenfinnan leap bright in the
blaze.

Oh high-minded Moray, the exiled, the dear!
In the blush of the dawning the Standard uprear!
Wide, wide on the winds of the north let it fly,
Like the sun's latest flash when the tempest is
nigh!

Ye sons of the strong, when that dawning shall break,

Need the harp of the agèd remind you to wake? That dawn never beamed on your forefathers' eye But it roused each high chieftain to vanquish or die.

Oh sprung from the kings who in Islay kept state, Proud chiefs of Clan Ranald, Glengarry, and Sleat, Combine like three streams from one mountain of snow,

And resistless in union rush down on the foe!

True son of Sir Evan, undaunted Lochiel,

Place thy targe on thy shoulder, and burnish thy steel!

Rough Keppoch, give breath to thy bugle's bold swell,

Till far Coryarrick resound to the knell!

Stern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief of Kintail, Let the stag in thy standard bound wild in the gale!

May the race of Clan Gillean, the fearless and free, Remember Glenlivat, Harlaw, and Dundee !

Let the clan of grey Fingon, whose offspring has given

Such heroes to earth and such martyrs to heaven,
Unite with the race of renowned Rorri More
To launch the long galley, and stretch to the oar!

How Mac-Shimei will joy when their chief shall display

The yew-crested bonnet o'er tresses of gray!

How the race of wronged Alpine and murdered Glencoe

Shall shout for revenge when they pour on the foe!

Ye sons of brown Dermid, who slew the wild boar, Resume the pure faith of the great Callum-More! Mac-Niel of the Islands, and Moy of the Lake, For honour, for freedom, for vengeance awake!

Awake on your hills, on your islands awake, Brave sons of the mountain, the firth, and the lake!

'Tis the bugle,--but not for the chase is the call; 'Tis the pibroch's shrill summons,--but not to the hall.

'Tis the summons of heroes for conquest or death, When the banners are blazing on mountain and heath;

They call to the dirk, the claymore, and the targe, To the march and the muster, the line and the charge.

Be the brand of each chieftain's like Fin's in his ire!

May the blood through his veins flow like currents of fire!

Burst the base foreign yoke as your sires did of yore!

Or die like your sires, and endure it no more!

Sir Walter Scott.

129

LOCHIEL'S WARNING

WIZARD.

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;

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!

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.

WIZARD.

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 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-

WIZARD.

-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!