Pure as an infant in its first repose―― Mild as a summer evening at its close―― Pensive and pale as Dian in decline,―― Meek as the lily――tender as the vine―― Chaste as the Vestal,――modest as the ray, Which the sun leaves for night to scare away! These, and a thousand other charms, to boot Struck folly dumb, and admiration mute! Ceased the quadrille, the gallopade began, And partners briskly to their stations ran; Now thought the amorous Ambassador, Now let me dance――yes, now, or never more! With this he rushed to where his loved one stood, Asked her to dance――sweet girl!――she said she would; Joy to the Russian! he is blest indeed, And soon outstrips the fashionable speed;―― Too fatal speed! the floor’s vanished chalk Which pairs, more careful, step o’er in a walk, Arrests not them too fond to look below, Till down they suddenly together go! Smile not, ye fools!――the fair one’s head is broke! They raised her up, but never more she spoke! Ah! well with anguish may her partner start, For what hath broke her head, hath also broke his heart! _The Comic Magazine_, 1834. ―――― LOCHIEL’S WARNING _The 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; Woe, woe 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.