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'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 finished. Their thunders are hush'd 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 faggots, 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.

Tho' my perishing ranks should be strew'd in their gore,
Like ocean-weeds heap'd 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.

HOHENLINDEN.

ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,

When the drum beat, at dead of night,

Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neigh'd,
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven,
Far flash'd the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stained snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds rolling dun,
Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun,
Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few, shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.

EXILE OF ERIN.

THERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill:
For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repairing
To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill :
But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion,
For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean,
Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion,
He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh.
Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger;
The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee,
But I have no refuge from famine and danger,
A home and a country remain not to me.

Never again, in the green sunny bowers,

Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours,
Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,
And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh!

Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken,
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore;
But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken,

And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more!
Oh, cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me

In a mansion of peace-where no perils can chase me?
Never again shall my brothers embrace me?
They die to defend me, or live to deplore!

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

OUR bugles sang truce-for the night-cloud had lower'd,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain ;
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track:
'Twas autumn,--and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,

And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.

Stay, stay with us,-rest, thou art weary and worn;
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay ;-

But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

Born 1777.

Noel Thomas Carrington. Died 1830.

A DEVONSHIRE poet who followed the profession of schoolmaster at Plymouth. He has very pleasingly depicted the scenery of his native county in his poem of "Dartmoor."

THE PIXIES OF DEVON.

THEY are flown,

Beautiful fictions of our fathers, wove

In Superstition's web when Time was young,
And fondly loved and cherished: they are flown
Before the wand of Science! Hills and vales,
Mountains and moors of Devon, ye have lost
The enchantments, the delights, the visions all,
The elfin visions that so blest the sight
In the old days romantic. Nought is heard
Now, in the leafy world, but earthly strains—
Voices, yet sweet, of breeze, and bird, and brook,
And waterfall; the day is silent else,

And night is strangely mute! the hymnings high—
The immortal music, men of ancient times

Have ravished oft, are flown! O ye have lost,
Mountains, and moors, and meads, the radiant throngs
That dwelt in your green solitudes, and filled
The air, the fields, with beauty and with joy
Intense; with a rich mystery that awed
The mind, and flung around a thousand hearths
Divinest tales, that through the enchanted year
Found passionate listeners!

The very streams
Brightened with visitings of these so sweet

Ethereal creatures! They were seen to rise
From the charmed waters, which still brighter grew
As the pomp passed to land, until the eye
Scarce bore the unearthly glory. Where they trod,
Young flowers, but not of this world's growth, arose,
And fragrance, as of amaranthine bowers,
Floated upon the breeze. And mortal eyes
Looked on their revels all the luscious night;
And, unreproved, upon their ravishing forms
Gazed wistfully, as in the dance they moved,
Voluptuous to the thrilling touch of harp
Elysian !

Thomas Moore.

Born 1779

Died 1852.

MOORE was born in Dublin, on 28th May 1779. His parents were Catholics and in humble circumstances, but gave him a tolerably good education; and in 1793, when the University of Dublin was opened to Catholics, he was sent there. He speedily distinguished himself by his classical attainments, but narrowly escaped a Government prosecution for treason, of which, indeed, he was not quite guiltless. In 1793 he contributed verses of considerable merit to a periodical called "Anthologia Hibernica ;" and in 1799 he removed to London, where appeared his translation of Anacreon, dedicated by permission to the Prince of Wales, which brought him into notice. His singing, too, became the rage in fashionable circles; and so popular was he that he obtained the appointment of AdmiraltyRegistrar for Bermuda, with a handsome salary. He set out for Bermuda in 1804, but wearying of the place he returned to England, leaving his duties to be performed by a deputy. On his return from Bermuda he published two volumes of poems, which were most unmercifully treated by the "Edinburgh Review." Moore considered the criticism as so personal that he sent a challenge to Jeffrey the editor, and a meeting was arranged; but while the seconds were loading the pistols, Moore and Jeffrey got into an agreeable chat, which was only interrupted by the arrival of the police, who carried them off to Bow Street: the matter was ultimately arranged, and the pair became fast friends ever after. In 1811, Moore married Miss Bessy Dyke, a lady who had attained some distinction on the Irish stage; she was a most suitable wife, and made for him a happy home. In 1807, Moore commenced his "Irish Melodies," a noble and patriotic work, which met with a most enthusiastic reception, especially from his countrymen; the first part was published in 1813, and the last part in 1834. In 1812, Moore commenced a series of satirical effusions which met with prodigious success: the wit, ease, and playfulness of the satire captivated every circle; and the poet's reputation was such that a friend was able to make an arrangement with Murray the publisher for Moore to write an Eastern romance in poetry, and to get for it the sum of three thousand guineas. This, for a poem yet unwritten, is one of the most striking events in poetical history. The poem was finished and published in 1817. It had a wonderful sale-six editions were sold in as many months; and the truth of the descriptions were the wonder and delight of Orientalists, who knew Moore had never been in the East; even Jeffrey hailed it "as the finest Orientalism we have had yet." Moore's star was at its zenith, when notice arrived of the fraud of his deputy in Bermuda, entailing on him a loss of L.6000. An attachment was issued against his person, and Moore left for Paris; but by the kindness of friends he was ultimately enabled to compromise and settle the matter. Whilst on the Continent he composed "The Epicurean," a prose story, and "The Loves of the Angels," published in 1823. Moore's circumstances were not such as to free his mind from anxiety; and on a hint to this effect to Lord John Russell, he in 1835 received a pension of L.300 a-year from Government. During the rest of his career Moore was chiefly engaged as a prose writer; his Life of Sheridan, and Life of Lord Byron, are among the best of his works at this period, In 1838 he resolved on a visit to Ireland: the news preceded him, and

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