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Read the note on "Lochiel" in the study of "The Eve Before Waterloo", then turn to part III and read "The Battle of Killiecrankie." The battle of Culloden was fought on a moor a few miles from the present city of Inverness, near Moray Firth, Scotland, January 14, 1746. Lochiel fought desperately, but escaped uninjured from the battlefield. Seeing that all was lost, he secured a boat and fled to France. This was the last attempt of the Stuarts to regain the throne of England.
Seer. Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array!
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear,
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?
But down let him stoop from his havoc on high!
Whose banners arise on the battlements' height,
For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood,
Their swords are a thousand; their bosoms are one.
When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd,
Seer. Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day!
Now in darkness and billows he sweeps from my sight:
But where is the iron-bound prisoner? Where?
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;
Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell!
Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat,
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 his perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore,
Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore,
While the kindling of life in his bosom remains,
Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low,
And, leaving in battle no blot on his name,
Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame!
THE DEAD GRENADIER
BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR
This poem presents a beautiful idealization of the common soldier.
On the right of the battalion a grenadier of France, Struck through his iron harness by the lightning of a
His breast all wet with British blood, his brow with British breath,
There fell defiant, face to face with England and with death.
They made a miter of his heart-they cleft it through and
One half was for his legion, and the other for it too! The colors of a later day prophetic fingers shed,
For lips were blue and cheeks were white and the fleurde-lis was red!
And the bugles blew, and the legion wheeled, and the grenadier was dead.
And then the old commander rode slowly down the ranks, And thought how brief the journey grew, between the battered flanks;
And the shadows in the moonlight fell strangely into line Where the battle's reddest riot pledged the richest of the
And the camp fires flung their phantoms-all doing what they could
To close the flinty columns up as old campaigners would! On he rode, the old commander, with the ensign in
And, as statued bronzes brighten with the smoky torch's
Flashed a light in all their faces, like the flashing of a
Then, with brow all bare and solemn, "For the King!" he grandly said,
"Lower the colors to the living-beat the ruffle for the dead!"
And thrice the red silk flickered low its flame of royal fire, And thrice the drums moaned out aloud the mourner's