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DIALOGUES.

1.-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;
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, 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! laugh'st 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 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.
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 wo to his kindred, and wo to his cause,
When Albin her claymore indignantly draws;
When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd,
Clanronald 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 blood-hounds 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 fagots 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

Lochiel. -Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale:

1

For never shall Albin a destiny meet,

So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat.

Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore,
Like ocean-weeds heaped 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 feet to the foe!

And leaving in battle no blot on his name,

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

CAMPBELL.

2.-HOTSPUR AND SIR RICHARD VERNON, FROM THE FIRST PART OF HENRY THE FOURTH.

Hot. My cousin Vernon! welcome, by my soul.

Ver. Pray Heaven, my news be worth a welcome, Lord. The earl of Westmoreland, seven thousand strong,

Is marching hitherwards; with him, prince John.

Hot. No harm: what more?

Ver.

And further, I have learned,

The king himself in person hath set forth,

Or hitherwards intended speedily,

With strong and mighty preparation.

Hot. He shall be welcome too. Where is his son,

The nimble-footed madcap prince of Wales,

And his comrades, that daffed the world aside,
And bid it pass?

Ver.

All furnished, all in arms,

All plumed, like estridges that with the wind
Bated,-like eagles having lately bathed;
Glittering in golden coats, like images;
As full of spirit as the month of May,
And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer;
Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls.
I saw young Harry, with his beaver on,
His cuisses on his thighs, gallantly armed,
Rise from the ground like feathered Mercury,
And vaulted with such ease into his seat
As if an angel dropped down from the clouds,
To turn and wind a fiery Pegasus,

And witch the world with noble horsemanship.

Hot. No more, no more; worse than the sun in March,
This praise doth nourish agues. Let them come;
They come like sacrifices in their trim,

And to the fire-eyed maid of smoky war,
All hot, and bleeding, will we offer them:
The mailed Mars shall on his altar sit,
Up to the ears in blood. I am on fire,
To hear this rich reprisal is so nigh,

And yet not ours :-Come, let me take my horse,
Who is to bear me, like a thunderbolt,
Against the bosom of the prince of Wales:
Harry to Harry shall, hot horse to horse,

Meet, and ne'er part, till one drop down a corse.—
O, that Glendower were come!

Ver.

There is more news:

I learned in Worcester, as I rode along,

He cannot draw his power these fourteen days.

Hot. What may the king's whole battle reach unto?
Ver. To thirty thousand.

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My father and Glendower being both away,

The powers of us may serve so great a day.
Come, let us take a muster speedily:

Doomsday is near; die all, die merrily.

SHAKSPEARE.

3.-FROM THE PLAY OF AS YOU LIKE IT.

Duke S. Why, how now, monsieur! what a life is this, That your poor friends must woo your company?

What! you look merrily.

Jaq. A fool, a fool! I met a fool i' the forest,

A motley fool; a miserable world!

As I do live by food, I met a fool,

Who laid him down and basked him in the sun,
And railed on lady Fortune in good terms,

In good set terms, and yet a motley fool.

"Good morrow, fool," quoth I: "No, sir," quoth he, "Call me not fool, till Heaven hath sent me fortune:" And then he drew a dial from his poke:

And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye,
Says, very wisely, "It is ten o'clock:

"Thus we may see," quoth he, "how the world wags:

""Tis but an hour ago, since it was nine;

"And after one hour more, 't will be eleven;
"And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe,
"And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot,
"And thereby hangs a tale." When I did hear
The motley fool thus moral on the time,
My lungs began to crow like chanticleer,
That fools should be so deep-contemplative;
And I did laugh, sans intermission,
An hour by his dial.-O noble fool!
A worthy fool! Motley's the only wear.

Duke S. What fool is this?

Jaq. O worthy fool!—One that hath been a courtier; And says, if ladies be but young, and fair,

They have the gift to know it: and in his brain,—

Which is as dry as the remainder biscuit

After a voyage, he hath strange places crammed
With observation, the which he vents

In mangled forms :-0, that I were a fool!

I am ambitious for a motley coat.

Duke S. Thou shalt have one.

Jaq.
It is my only suit:
Provided, that you weed your better judgments
Of all opinion that grows rank in them,
That I am wise. I must have liberty
Withal, as large a charter as the wind,

To blow on whom I please; for so fools have:
And they that are most galled with my folly,
They most must laugh: And why, sir, must they so?
The why is plain as way to parish church:
He, that a fool doth very wisely hit,
Doth very foolishly, although he smart,
Not to seem senseless of the bob: if not,

The wise man's folly is anatomized

Even by the squandering glances of the fool.

Invest me in my motley; give me leave

To speak my mind, and I will through and through
Cleanse the foul body of the infected world,

If they will patiently receive my medicine.

P

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