O THAT the Desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair Spirit for my minister, That I might all forget the human race, And, hating no one, love but only her! Ye elements!--in whose ennobling stir I feel myself exalted-Can ye not Accord me such a Being? Do I err In deeming such inhabit many a spot? Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot.

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep Sea, and music in its roar : I love not Man the less, but Nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the Universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Oceanroll!

Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin-his control
Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
When, in a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling
groan,

Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and

And monarchs tremble in their capitals,
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war-
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which

mar

Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of Trafalgar.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee

Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are they?

Thy waters washed them power while they were free,

And many a tyrant since; their shores obey The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay Has dried up realms to deserts:-not so thou;

Unchangeable, save to thy wild waves' play, Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow: Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest

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—

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:

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,

Lochiël, untainted by flight or by chains, While the kindling of life in his bosom re

mains,

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.

As death withdrew his shades from the day,
While the sun looked smiling bright

O'er a wide and woeful sight,
Where the fires of funeral light
Died away.

Now joy, old England, raise!
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,

While the wine-cup shines in light;
And yet amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep,
Full many a fathom deep,
By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore!

Brave hearts! to Briton's pride
Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died;-
With the gallant good Riou:

Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave!

While the billow mournful rolls
And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls
Of the brave!