Banners of battle o'er him hung,
And warriors slept beneath,
And light, as noon's broad light, was flung
On the settled face of death.
2. On the settled face of death
A strong and ruddy glare,
Though dimm'd at times by the censer's breath,
Yet it fell still brightest there,-
As if each deeply-furrow'd trace
Of earthly years to show.
Alas! that scepter'd mortal's race
Has surely closed in woe!
3. The marble floor was swept
By many a long dark stole',
As the kneeling priests', round him that slept',
Sang mass for the parted soul':
And solemn were the strains they pour'd
Through the stillness of the night,
With the cross above, and the crown and sword, And the silent king in sight.
4. There was heard a heavy clang,
As of steel-girt men the tread,
And the tombs and the hollow pavement rang
With a sounding thrill of dread;
And the holy chant was hush'd a while,
As, by the torch's flame,
A gleam of arms up the sweeping aisle,
With a mail-clad leader, came.
5. He came with haughty look,
An eagle-glance and clear;
But his proud heart through its breast-plate shook
When he stood beside the bier!
He stood there still with a drooping brow,
And clasp'd hands o'er it raised;
For his father lay before him low:
It was Coeur-de-Lion gazed!
6. And silently he strove
With the workings of his breast';
But there's more in late repentant love'
Than steel may keep suppress'd'!
And his tears brake forth', at last, like rain':
Men held their breath in awe,
For his face was seen by his warrior-train,
And he reck'd not that they saw.
7. He look'd upon the dead,
And sorrow seem'd to lie-
A weight of sorrow, even like lead-
Pale on the fast-shut eye.
He stoop'd and kiss'd the frozen cheek
And the heavy hand of clay,
Till bursting words, yet all too weak,
Gave his soul's passion way :
8. "O father! is it vain,
This late remorse and deep?
Speak to me', father'! once again'.
I weep'! behold', I weep'!
Alas! my guilty pride and ire'!
Were but this work undone,
I would give England's crown', my sire',
To hear thee bless thy son'.
9. "Speak to me'! mighty grief
Ere now the dust hath stirr'd!
Hear me, but hear me'!-father, chief,
My king! I must be heard!
Hush'd, hush'd!-how is it that I call,
And that thou answerest not?
10. "Thy silver hairs I see';
So still', so sadly bright'!
And, father, father! but for me
They had not been so white!
I bore thee down', high heart', at last;
No longer couldst thou strive':
Oh! for one moment of the past',
To kneel and say, 'Forgive'!'
11. "Thou wert the noblest king
On royal throne e'er seen';
And thou didst wear in knightly ring
Of all', the stateliest mien';
And thou didst prove, where spears are proved,
In war the bravest heart;
Oh, ever the renown'd and loved
Thou wert',-and there thou art'!
12. "Thou that my boyhood's guide
Didst take fond joy to be!
The times I've sported at thy side
And climb'd thy parent-knee!
And there before the blessed shrine,
My sire! I see thee lie:
How will that sad still face of thine
Look on me till I die!"
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 scatter'd 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, 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, 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 phantom of fright!
Wizard. 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 aerie, that beacons the darkness of heaven.
O crested Lochiel! the peerless in might,
Whose banners arise on the battlement's hight,
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 marshal'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,
Clan Ronald 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!
Now in darkness and billows he sweeps from my sight;
Rise, rise, ye wild tempests, and cover his flight!
"Tis finish'd. Their thunders are hush'd on the moors;
Culloden is lost, and my country deplores.
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