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Rob.

That awful doom which canon's tell
Shuts paradise, and opens hell;
Anathema of power so dread,
Bids each good angel soar away,
And every ill one claim his prey;
Expels thee from the church's care,
And deafens Heaven against thy prayer;
Haunts thee while living;—and, when dead,
Dwells on thy yet devoted head.

Rends honour's scutcheon from thy hearse,
Stills o'er thy bier the holy verse,

And spurns thy corpse from hallowed ground,
Flung like vile carrion, to the hound!
Such is the dire and desperate doom,
For sacrilege decreed by Rome;
And such the well-deserved meed
Of thine unhallowed, ruthless deed.
Abbot thy charge

It boots not to dispute at large.

This much howe'er I bid thee know:
No selfish vengeance dealt the blow;
For Comyn died his country's foe.
Nor blame I friends whose ill-timed speed
Fulfilled my soon repented deed,

Nor censure those from whose stern tongue
The dire anathema has rung:

I only blame mine own wild ire,

By Scotland's wrongs incensed to fire.
Heaven knows my purpose to atone,
Far as I may, the evil done,
And hears a penitent's appeal
From papal curse and prelate's zeal.
My first and dearest task achieved,
Fair Scotland from her thrall relieved,
Shall many a priest in cope and stole,
Say requiem for Red Comyn's soul,
While I the blessed cross advance,
And expiate this unhappy chance,
In Palestine, with sword and lance.
But while content the church should know
My conscience owns the debt I owe,
Unto De Argentine and Lorn
The name of traitor I return,
Bid them defiance stern and high,

And give them, in their throats, the lie!
These brief words spoke, I speak no more
Do what thou wilt: my shrift is o'er.
Abbot. De Bruce! I rose with purpose dread
To speak my curse upon thy head,
And give thee as an outcast o'er

To him who burns to shed thy gore ;-
But like the Midianite of old,

Who stood on Zophian, heaven-controlled,
I feel, within mine aged breast,

A power that will not be repressed.
It prompts my voice; it swells my veins ;-
It burns, it maddens, it constrains!
O'ermastered thus by high behest,

I bless thee, and thou shalt be bless'd!
Bless'd in thy sceptre and thy sword,
De Bruce, fair Scotland's rightful lord,-
Bless'd in thy deeds and in thy fame,
What lengthened honours wait thy name!
In distant ages, sire to son

Shall tell thy tale of freedom won,
And teach his infants, in the use

Of earliest speech, to falter Bruce!'

The power, whose dictates swell my breast,

Hath bless'd thee, and thou shalt be bless'd !-

Brethren, our errand here is o'er, [speaking to his attendant monks,] Our task discharged.-Unmoor, unmoor!

EXERCISE LI.—THE FATE OF MCGREGOR.—Hogg.

[This specimen of the superstitious belief of the Scottish highlanders, requires,-from the wild and preternatural character of the whole, an intensity of tone transcending all usual limit. The half whisper of horror, the literal whisper of terror, the scream of agony, all have their appropriate place, in the recitation of this piece. It is designed as a full exercise in the most impressive forms of powerful emotion.-One important result attending the practice of such pieces, is that heightened susceptibility of imagination, which is so powerful an instrument of expressive effect.]

"McGregor, McGregor! remember our foemen,-
The moon rises broad o'er the brow of Ben Lomond,
The clans are impatient, and chide thy delay,-
Arise-let us bound to Glenlyon away!"

Stern scowled the McGregor, then silent and sullen,
He turned his red eye to the braes of Strathfillan,
“Go, Malcom, to sleep: let the clans be dismissed;
The Campbells, this night, for McGregor must rest.”

"McGregor, McGregor! our scouts have been flying
Three days round the hills of McNab and Glenlyon,—
Of riding and running such tidings they bear,

We must meet them at home, else they'll quickly be here.”

"The Campbell may come, as his promises bind him,
And haughty McNab with his giants behind him;
This night I am bound to relinquish the fray,
And do what it freezes my vitals to say.

"Forgive me, dear brother, this horror of mind;-
Thou knowest in the battle I was never behind;
Nor ever receded a foot from the van,

Nor blenched at the ire or the prowess of man;

"But I've sworn by the cross, by my God, and by all,-An oath which I cannot and dare not recall,—

Ere the shadows of midnight fall east from the pile,
To meet with a spirit, this night, in Glengyle.

"Last night, in my chamber, all thoughtful and lone,
I called to remembrance some deeds I had done,-
When entered a lady, with visage so wan,

And looks such as never were fastened on man.

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I knew her, O brother! I knew her full well:

Of that once fair dame such a tale I could tell,

As would thrill thy bold heart; but how long she remained,
So racked was my spirit-my bosom so pained,

"I knew not; but ages seemed short to the while :-
Though proffer the highlands,-nay, all the green isle,
With length of existence no man can enjoy,
The same to endure, the dread proffer I'd fly↳

"The thrice threatened pangs of last night to forego,
McGregor would dive to the mansions below!
Despairing and mad, to futurity blind,

The present to shun, and some respite to find,—

"I swore, ere the shadows fall east from the pile, To meet her alone by the brook of Glengyle!

A parting embrace in one moment she gave,-
Her breath was a furnace, her bosom the grave;

"Then flitting elusive she said with a frown,
The mighty McGregor shall yet be my own!""
McGregor! thy fancies are wild as the wind;
The dreams of the night have disordered thy mind.

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"Come, buckle thy panoply, march to the field;
See, brother, how hacked are thy helmet and shield!
Ay! that was McNab, in the height of his pride,
When the lions of Dochart stood firm by his side.
"This night the proud chief his presumption shall rue;
Rise, brother! these chinks in his heart blood shall glue.
Thy fantasies frightful shall flit on the wing,
When loud with thy bugle Glenlyon shall ring."

Like glimpse of the moon through the storm of the night,
McGregor's red eye shed one sparkle of light,-
It faded, it darkened,-he shuddered,-he sighed :
"No!-not for the universe!" low he replied.

Away went McGregor, but went not alone:—
To watch the dread rendezvous Malcom has gone:
They oared the broad Lomond, so still and serene,
And, deep in her bosom, how awful the scene!

Over mountains inverted the blue water curled,
And rocked them o'er skies of a far nether world :-
All silent they went; for the time was approaching,-
The moon the blue zenith already was touching.

No foot was abroad on the forest or hill,
No sound but the lullaby sung by the rill:

Young Malcom, at distance couched, trembling the while;
McGregor stood lone, by the brook of Glengyle.

Few minutes had passed, ere they spied, on the stream,
A skiff sailing light, where a lady did seem;
Her sail was a web of the gossamer's loom;
The glow-worm her wake-light, the rainbow her boom.

A dim rayless beam was her prow, and her mast
Like wold-fire at midnight, that glares o'er the waste.
Though rough was the river with rock and cascade,
No torrent, no rock, her velocity staid;

She wimpled the water to weather and lea,

And heaved as if borne on the waves of the sea.

Mute nature was roused in the bounds of the glen,—
The wild deer of Gairtney abandoned his den,
Fled panting away over river and isle,

Nor once turned his eye to the brook of Glengyle.

The fox fled in terror; the eagle awoke,

As slumbering he dozed on a shelve of the rock,—
Astonished, to hide in the moonbeam he flew,
And screwed the night heavens till lost in the blue.

Young Malcom beheld the pale lady approach,
The chieftain salute her, and shrink from her touch;
He saw the McGregor kneel down on the plain,
As if begging for something he could not obtain.

She raised him indignant, derided his stay,
Then bore him on board, set her sail and away!
Though fast the red bark down the river did glide,
Yet faster ran Malcom adown by its side :—

:

"McGregor, McGregor!" he bitterly cried :-
McGregor, McGregor!" the echoes replied.
He struck at the lady; but,—strange though it seem,—
His sword only fell on the rock and the stream;

But the groans from the boat that ascended amain,
Were groans from a bosom in horror and pain:
They reached the dark lake, and bore lightly away,—
McGregor is vanished, for ever and aye!

EXERCISE LII.-THE IRISH DISTURBANCE BILL OF 1833.

O'Connell.

[An example of vehement and empassioned declamation; requiring the utmost power of voice and gesture.]

I do not rise to fawn or cringe to this House,-I do not rise to supplicate you to be merciful towards the nation to which I belong towards a nation which, though subject to England, yet is distinct from it. It is a distinct nation: it has been treated as such by this country, as may be proved by history, and by seven hundred years of tyranny. I call upon this House, as you value the liberty of England, not to allow the present nefarious bill to pass. In it are involved

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