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-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 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.
LIKE to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are ;
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew;
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood :
Ev'n such is man, whose borrow'd light
Is straight call'd in, and paid to-night.
The wind blows out; the bubble dies;
The spring entomb'd in autumn lies ;
The dew dries up; the star is shot ;
The flight is past—and man forgot.
HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS.
WHEN the dying flame of day
Through the chancel shot its ray,
Far the glimmering tapers shed
Faint light on the cowlèd head,
And the censer burning swung,
Where before the altar hung
That proud banner, which with prayer
Had been consecrated there.
And the nuns'sweet hymn was heard the while
Sung low in the dim, mysterious aisle.
Take thy banner !—may it wave
Proudly o'er the good and brave,
When the battle's distant wail
Breaks the sabbath of our vale,-
When the clarion's music thrills
To the hearts of these lone hills,
When the spear in conflict shakes,
And the strong lance shivering breaks ?
Take thy banner !—and beneath
The battle-cloud's encircling wreath,
Guard it-till our homes are free
Guard it-God will
HYMN OF THE MORAVIAN NUNS.
In the dark and trying hour,
In the breaking forth of power,
In the rush of steeds and men,
His right hand will shield thee then.
Take thy banner ! But when night
Closes round the ghastly fight,
If the vanquish'd warrior bow,
Spare him! By our holy vow,
By our prayers
By the mercy that endears,
Spare him—be our love hath shared !
Spare him—as thou wouldst be spared!
Take thy banner !—and if e'er
Thou shouldst press the soldier's bier,
And the muffled drum should beat
To the tread of mournful feet,
Then this crimson flag shall be
Martial cloak and shroud for thee!
And the warrior took that banner proud,
And it was his martial cloak and shroud !
Say, who the various nations can declare
That plough, with busy wing, the peopled air ?
These cleave the crumbling bark for insect food;
Those dip their crooked beak in kindred blood ;
Some haunt the rushy moor, the lonely woods ;
Some bathe their silver plumage in the foods ;
Some fly to man, his household gods implore,
And gather round his hospitable door;
Wait the known call, and find protection there
From all the lesser tyrants of the air.
The tawny eagle seats his callow brood
High on the cliff, and feasts his young with blood.
On Snowdon's rocks, or Orkney's wide domain,
Whose beetling cliffs o'erhang the western main,
The royal bird his lonely kingdom forms
Amidst the gathering clouds and sullen storms;
Through the wide waste of air he darts his sight,
And holds his sounding pinions poised for flight;
With cruel eye premeditates the war,
And marks his destined victim from afar ;
Descending in a whirlwind to the ground,
His pinions like the rush of waters sound ;
The fairest of the fold he bears away,
And to his nest compels the struggling prey.
He scorns the game by meaner hunters tore,
And dips his talons in no vulgar gore.
With lovelier pomp, along the grassy plain,
The silver pheasant draws his shining train;
Once on the painted banks of Ganges' stream,
He spread his plumage to the sunny gleam;
But now the wiry net his flight confines,
He lowers his purple crest, and inly pines.
To claim the verse unnumber'd tribes appear,
That swell the music of the vernal year :
Seized with the spirit of the kindly spring,
They tune the voice and sleek the glossy wing,
With emulative strife the notes prolong,
And pour out all their little souls in song.
When winter bites upon the naked plain,
Nor food, nor shelter, in the groves remain,
By instinct led, a firm united band,
As marshall’d by some skilful general's hand,
The congregated nations wing their way
In dusky columns o'er the trackless sea ;
In clouds unnumber'd, annual hover o'er
The craggy Bass, or Kilda's utmost shore ;
Thence spread their sails to meet the southern wind,
And leave the gathering tempest far behind;
Pursue the circling sun's indulgent ray,
Course the swift seasons, and o'ertake the day.