_The Wizard_―― Ah! laughs’t thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn! Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth, From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the north? Lo! the death shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode Companionless, bearing destruction abroad; But down let him stoop from his havoc on high! Ah! home let him speed――for the spoiler is nigh. 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 eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven. Oh, crested Lochiel! the peerless in might, Whose banners arise on the battlements height, 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. ―――― These lines are from Campbell’s “Lochiel’s Warning,” which poem is said to have been formed upon the skeleton of _bouts-rimés_, it certainly displays little trace of such a mode of construction. ―――― On January 14, 1880, _The World_ published two competition poems on the model of “Lochiel’s Warning”; the topic selected being: “1879, its Glory and its Shame.” FIRST PRIZE. _John Bull――――Old Year._ _John Bull_―― Old Year, Old Year, I’m glad of the day That beholds thee, like evil dream, vanish away! For dejection and shame have companioned thy flight, From the morn of thy birth to thy final midnight. Look, look, where on reeking Isandula’s plain, Outflanked and outnumbered, our bravest are slain! Ah, see how cruel assegais enter the breast, Undismayed to the last, of our comrade and guest! Hark, hark, where the waters of Afghan’s dark river Fling back a sad cry, and then still it for ever, And where blood-stained Cabul with fanatical yells Of an envoy’s foul slaughter exultingly tells. _Old Year_―― Peace, pessimist, peace! I have shattered the power Of the Zulu man-slayer, have curbed the rude Boer; Secocoeni is captive. Shere Ali is dead, And back from your borders the Russian I’ve sped; And no brighter pages can valour display.