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' 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 marshaled 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-

Wizard. Lochiel! Lochiel! beware of the day!
For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal,
But man can not cover what God would reveal:
"T is 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 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!

'T is finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moora;
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 dishonor, 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.

And louder, louder, louder,
Cracked the black gunpowder,
Cracked amain!

3. Now like smiths at their forges
Worked the red St. George's
Cannoniers,

And the "villainous saltpeter"
Rang a fierce discordant meter
Round their ears:

As the swift

Storm-drift,

With hot sweeping anger,
Came the horseguards' clangor
On our flanks;

Then higher, higher, higher,
Burned the old-fashioned fire
Through the ranks!

4. Then the old-fashioned colonel
Galloped through the white infernal
Powder cloud;

And his broad sword was swinging,
And his brazen throat was ringing,
Trumpet loud:

Then the blue
Bullets flew,

And the trooper jackets redden
At the touch of the leaden
Rifle breath,

And rounder, rounder, rounder,
Roared the iron six-pounder
Hurling death!

CLXXXVII.-CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE.

1. HALF a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,

All in the valley of death,

Rode the six hundred.

"Charge!" was the captain's cry;
Theirs not to reason why,

Theirs not to make reply,

Theirs but to do or die,

Into the valley of death, rode the six hundred

2. Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon in front of them

Volleyed and thundered;

Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,

Into the mouth of hell,

Into the jaws of death, rode the six hundred.

3. Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,

Cannon behind them

Volleyed and thundered;

Stormed at with shot and shell,

They that had struck so well

Rode through the jaws of death

Half a league back again,

Up from the mouth of hell

All that was left of them, left of six hundred.

4. Honor the brave and bold!
Long shall the tale be told,

Yes, when our babes are old-
How they rode onward.

CLXXVIII.-LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

1. A CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound,
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound,
To row us o'er the ferry."

2 "Now, who be ye would cross Loch-Gyle,
This dark and stormy water?"

"Oh! I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,

And this-Lord Ullin's daughter.

3. "And fast before her father's men,
Three days we 've fled together,
For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.

4. "His horsemen hard behind us ride:
Should they our steps discover,

TENNYSON.

Then who will cheer my bonny bride, When they have slain her lover?" 5. Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, "I'll go, my chief-I'm ready: It is not for your silver bright, But for your winsome lady:

6. "And, by my word! the bonny bird
In danger, shall not tarry;

So, though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry."

7. By this, the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And, in the scowl of heaven, each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.

8. But still, as wilder grew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armëd men,

66

Their trampling sounded nearer.

9. "O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,
"Though tempests round us gather,
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father."

10. The boat has left the stormy land,
A stormy sea before her-

When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her.

11. And while they rowed, amid the roar
Of waters fast prevailing,

Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,

His wrath was changed to wailing.

12. For, sore dismayed, through storm and shade, His child he did discover;

One lovely arm she stretched for aid,

And one was round her lover.

13. "Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,

'Across this stormy water:

And I'll forgive your Highland chief:

My daughter! oh, my daughter!"

14. 'T was vain: the loud waves lashed the shore,
Return, or aid preventing:

The waters wild went o'er his child,
And he was left lamenting.

CAMPBELL