LOCHIEL’S WARNING.
(This piece is frequently recited by one person, but is much more effective in dialogue. Lochiel, a Highland chieftain, while on his march to join the Pretender, is met by one of the Highland seers, or prophets, who warns him to return, and not incur the certain ruin and disaster which await the unfortunate prince and his followers on the field of Culloden. When used as a dialogue, a blast of trumpet is heard. The curtain being drawn, Lochiel enters, attired in the Highland fighting costume, and following him should appear in the doorway of the stage two or three armed Scotch soldiers to give the idea of a large number behind them. The Seer meets him from the other direction, dressed in flowing robes, and with long white hair and beard, and, raising his hands in the attitude of warning, speaks imploringly as follows:)
Seer.
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 flight:
They rally, they bleed, for their country 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, O 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!
O! 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!
Seer.
Ha! laugh’st 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 out-speeding, 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 eyry, that beacons the darkness of Heaven.
O, 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!
Lochiel.
False Wizard, avaunt! I have marshall’d 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,
Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud;
All plaided, and plum’d in their tartan array—
Seer.
Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day!
For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal,
Yet man cannot cover what God would reveal:
’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 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 finish’d.—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, banish’d, 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, convuls’d in his quivering limbs,
And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims.
Accurs’d be the fagots 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.
Tho’ his perishing ranks should be strow’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.
Campbell.
[CURTAIN.]
TABLEAU.
A very pretty tableau may be quickly formed behind the curtain, and at the close of applause from the audience the curtain be raised, showing Lochiel standing proud and imperious, his clan gathered around him, and the old Seer upon his knees, head thrown back, with hands and face raised imploringly.