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So spake the rude chieftain: No answer is made,
But each mantle unfolding a dagger displayed.

'I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud,'
Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and loud;
'And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem:
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!'

O! pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween,
When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was seen!
When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in scorn,
'Twas the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of Lorn:

'I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief,
I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief:
On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem;
Glenara! Glenara! now read me my dream!'

In dust, low the traitor has knelt to the ground,
And the desert revealed where his lady was found;
From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne,—
Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn.

Campbell. ODE.

Oh, shame to thee, land of the Gaul f

Oh, shame to thy children and thee! Unwise in thy glory, and base in thy fall,

How wretched thy portion shall be!
Derision shall strike thee forlorn,

A mockery that never shall die;
The curses of hate, and the hisses of scorn,

Shall burthen the winds of thy sky;
And, proud o'er thy ruin, for ever be hurled
The laughter of triumphj the jeers of the world!

Oh, where is thy spirit of yore,

The spirit that breathed in thy dead, When gallantry's star was the beacon before,

And honour the passion that led? Thy storms have awakened their sleep,

They groan from the place of their rest, And wrathfully murmur, and sullenly weep,

To see the foul stain on thy breast: For where is the glory they left thee in trust ?— 'Tis scattered in darkness, 'tis trampled in dust !■

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Go, look through the kingdoms of earth,

From Indus, all round to the pole,
And something of goodness, of honour, and worth,

Shall brighten the sins of the soul.
But thou art alone in thy shame,

The world cannot liken thee there;
Abhorrence and vice have disfigured thy name

Beyond the low reach of compare :— Stupendous in guilt, thou shalt lend us through time A proverb, a bye-word for treachery and crime.

While conquest illumined his sword,

While yet in his prowess he stood,
Thy praises still followed the steps of thy Lord,

And welcomed the torrent of blood.
Though tyranny sat on his crown,

And withered the nations afar,
Yet bright in thy view was the despot's renown,

Till fortune deserted his car;
Then, back from the chieftain thou slunkest away—
The foremost to insult, the first to betray!

Forgot were the feats he bad done,
The toils he had borne in thy cause;
Thou turned'st to worship a new rising sun,
And waft other songs of applause.

But the storm was beginning to lower,

Adversity clouded his beam,
And honour and faith were the brag of an hour,

And loyalty's self but a dream:—
To him thou hadst banished thy vows were restored,—
And the first that had scoffed, were the first that adored!

What tumult thus burthens the air?

What throng that encircles his throne?
'Tis the shout of delight, 'tis the millions that swear

His sceptre shall rale them alone!
Reverses shall brighten their zeal,

Misfortune shall hallow his name,
And the world that pursues him shall mournfully feel,

How quenchless the spirit and flame
That Frenchmen will breathe, when their hearts are on fire,
For the hero they love, and the chief they admire I

Their hero has rushed to the field;
His laurels are covered with shade—
But where is the spirit that never should yield,
The loyalty never to fade?
In a moment, desertion and guile
Abandoned him up to the foe;
The dastards that flourished and grew at his smile,
Forsook and renounced him in woe;

And the millions that swore they would perish to save, Beheld him a fugitive, captive, and slave!

The savage, all wild in his glen,

Is nobler and better than thou;
Thou standest a wonder, a marvel to men,—

Such perfidy blackens thy brow!
If thou wert the place of my birth

At once from thy arms would I sever;
I'd fly to the uttermost ends of the earth,

And quit thee for ever and ever;—
And thinking of thee, in my long after-years,
Should but kindle my blushes and waken my tears.

Oh, shame to thee, land of the Gaul!
Oh, shame to thy children and thee!
Unwise in thy glory, and base in thy fall,
How wretched thy portion shall be!
Derision shall strike thee forlorn,
A mockery that never shall die;
The curses of hate and the hisses of scorn
Shall burthen the winds of thy sky;
And, proud o'er thy ruin, for ever be hurled
The laughter of triumph, the jeers of the world!

Byron.

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