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On the Funeral of the Princess Charlotte.
Rev. W. L. Bowles,
LO! where youth and beauty lie
Cold within the tomb!
Wither'd in their bloom.
O'er the young and buried bride
Let the cypress wave-
Lie hid in yonder grave.
Place the vain-expected child,
Gently near her breast!
But seeks its mother's rest.
Hark! we hear the general cry!
Hark! the passing bell!
A long and last farewell,
THE BARD'S INCANTATION.*
The Forest of Glenmore is drear,
It is all of black pine, and the dark oak-tree;
Is whistling the forest lullaby :-
There is a voice among the trees
That mingles with the groaning oak
And the lake-waves dashing against the rock;-
“Wake ye from your sleep of death,
“Minstrels and Bards of other days!
“And the midnight meteors dimly blaze;
→ Written ander the threat of invasion, in the autumn of 1804. + The forest of Glenmore is haunted by a spirit called Lhamdearg, ople Red-band.
“Souls of the mighty! wake and say,
“To what high strain your harps were strung, “When Lochlin ploughed her billowy way,
“And on your shores her Norsemen flung? “ Her Norsemen, trained to spoil and blood, “Skilled to prepare the raven's food, “ All by your harpings doom'd to die, “On bloody Largs and Loncarty.
“Mute are ye all? No murmurs strange
“Upon the midnight breeze sail by; “Nor through the pines with whistling change, .
“Mimic the harp's wild harmony! “Mute are ye now?-Ye ne'er were mute, “When Murder with his bloody foot, "And Rapine with his iron hand, “Were hovering near your mountaln strand.
" yet awake the strain to tell,
“By every deed in song enrolld, “By every chief who fought or fell,
“For Albion's weal in battle bold :-« From Cóilgach, first who roll'd his car, “Through the deep ranks of Roman war, “To him, of veteran memory dear,
Who victor died on Aboukir.
“By all their swords, by all their scars,
“Arise the mighty strain to tell;
“For fiercer than fierce Hengist's strain,
The wind is hush'd, and still the lake
Strange murmurs fill my tingling ears,
At the dread voice of other years—
WIZARD. . . . .. LOCHIEL! Lochiel, beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array! For a field of the dead rush's 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 desart flies frantic and far?
'Tis thine, qh' Glenüllin! whose bride shall await,
Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer!
Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn?