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ODE TO NAPOLEON.

"Expende Annibalem :-quot libras in duce summo Invenies?" JUVENAL, Sat. X.

"The Emperor Nepos was acknowledged by the Senate, by the Italians, and by the Provincials of Gaul; his moral virtues and military talents were loudly celebrated; and those who derived any private benefit from his government announced in prophetic strains the restoration of public felicity. By this shameful abdication, he protracted his life a few years, in a very ambiguous state, between an Emperor and an Exile, till- ."-GIBBON'S Decline and Fall, vol. vi. p. 220.

'Tis done-but yesterday a King!
And arm'd with Kings to strive-
And now thou art a nameless thing:
So abject-yet alive!

Is this the man of thousand thrones,
Who strew'd our earth with hostile bones,
And can he thus survive?
Since he, miscall'd the Morning Star,
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far.
Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind
Who bow'd so low the knee?
By gazing on thyself grown blind,
Thou taught'st the rest to see.
With might unquestion'd,-power to save,-
Thine only gift hath been the grave,

To use that worshipp'd thee;
Nor till thy fall could mortals guess
Ambition's less than littleness!
Thanks for that lesson-it will teach
To after-warriors more
Than high Philosophy can preach,
And vainly preach'd before.
That spell upon the minds of men
Breaks never to unite again,

That led them to adore
Those Pagod things of sabre sway,
With fronts of brass, and feet of clay.
The triumph, and the vanity,

The rapture of the strife-
The earthquake voice of Victory,
To thee the breath of life;

The sword, the sceptre, and that sway
Which man seem'd made but to obey,
Wherewith renown was rife-

All quell'd!-Dark Spirit! what must be
The madness of thy memory!
The Desolator desolate !

The Victor overthrown!
The Arbiter of others' fate

A Suppliant for his own!
Is it some yet imperial hope
That with such change can calmly cope?
Or dread of death alone?

To die a prince-or live a slave-
Thy choice is most ignobly brave!
He who of old would rend the oak,*
Dream'd not of the rebound;
Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke-
Alone-how look'd he round!
Thou, in the sternness of thy strength,
An equal deed hast done at length,

And darker fate hast found:
He fell, the forest prowlers' prey;
But thou must eat thy heart away!
The Roman, † when his burning heart
Was slaked with blood of Rome,
Threw down the dagger-dared depart,
In savage grandeur, home:
He dared depart, in utter scorn
Of men that such a yoke had borne,
Yet left him such a doom!
His only glory was that hour
Of self-upheld abandon'd power.
The Spaniard, when the lust of sway,
Had lost its quickening spell,
Cast crowns for rosaries away,
An empire for a cell;

A strict accountant of his beads,
A subtle disputant on creeds,
His dotage trifled well:

Yet better had he neither known

A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne.
But thou-from thy reluctant hand
The thunderbolt is wrung-

Too late thou leav'st the high command
To which thy weakness clung;
All Evil Spirit as thou art,
It is enough to grieve the heart
To see thine own unstrung;

To think that God's fair world hath been
The footstool of a thing so mean!

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And Earth hath spilt her blood for him,

Who thus can hoard his own!
And Monarchs bow'd the trembling limb,
And thank'd him for a throne!
Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear,
When thus thy mightiest foes their fear
In humblest guise have shown.
Oh! ne'er may tyrant leave behind
A brighter name to lure mankind!
Thine evil deeds are writ in gore,

Nor written thus in vain-
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more,
Or deepen every stain:
If thou hadst died as honour dies,
Some new Napoleon might arise,

To shame the world again-
But who would soar the solar height,
To set in such a starless night?
Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust
Is vile as vulgar clay;
Thy scales, Mortality! are just
To all that pass away:

But yet methought the living great
Some higher sparks should animate.
To dazzle and dismay:

Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make
mirth

Of these, the Conquerors of the earth.
And she, proud Austria's mournful flower,
Thy still imperial bride,

How bears her breast the torturing hour?
Still clings she to thy side?

Must she, too, bend: must she, too, share,
Thy late repentance, long despair,

Thou throneless Homicide?

If still she loves thee, hold that gem,—
"Tis worth thy vanish'd diadem!
Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle,
And gaze upon the sea;
That element may meet thy smile-
It ne'er was ruled by thee!
Or trace with thine all idle hand,
In loitering mood upon the sand,

That Earth is now as free!
That Corinth's pedagogue hath now
Transferr'd his byword to thy brow.
Thou Timour! in his captive's cage, t
What thoughts will there be thine,
While brooding in thy prison'd rage,
But one "The world was mine!
Unless, like he of Babylon,
All sense is with thy sceptre gone,
Life will not long confine
That spirit pour'd so widely forth-
So long obey'd-so little worth!
Or, like the thief of fire from heaven,
Wilt thou withstand the shock?
And share with him, the unforgiven,
His vulture and his rock?
Foredoom'd by God-by man accurst,
And that last act, though not thy worst,
The very Fiend's arch mock;
He in his fall preserved his pride,
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died!
There was a day-there was an hour,
While earth was Gaul's-Gaul thine-

* Dionysius of Sicily.

The cage of Bajazet, by order of Tamerlane.

When that immeasurable power
Unsated to resign,

Had been an act of purer fame,
Than gathers round Marengo's name,
And gilded thy decline,

Through the long twilight of all time,
Despite some passing clouds of crime.
But thou, forsooth, must be a king,
And don the purple vest!

As if that foolish robe could wring
Remembrance from thy breast.
Where is that faded garment? where
The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear,
The star, the string, the crest?
Vain froward child of empire! say,
Are all thy playthings snatch'd away?
Where may the wearied eye repose,
When gazing on the Great;

Where neither guilty glory glows,
Nor despicable state?

Yes-one-the first-the last-the best-
The Cincinnatus of the West,

Whom envy dared not hate, Bequeath'd the name of Washington, To make man blush there was but one!

ODE FROM THE FRENCH.

I.

561

We do not curse thee, Waterloo! Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew: There 'twas shed, but is not sunkRising from each gory trunk, Like the waterspout from ocean, With a strong and growing motion: It soars and mingles in the air, With that of lost LabedoyèreWith that of him whose honour'd grave Contains the "bravest of the brave.' A crimson cloud it spreads and glows, But shall return to whence it rose; When 'tis full 'twill burst asunderNever yet was heard such thunder As then shall shake the world with wonder- Never yet was seen such lightning As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning! Like the Wormwood Star foretold By the sainted Seer of old, Showering down a fiery flood, Turning rivers into blood.

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Than sold thyself to death and shame
For a meanly royal name;
Such as he of Naples wears,
Who thy blood-bought title bears.
Little didst thou deem, when dashing

On thy war-horse through the ranks,
Like a stream which burst its banks,
While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing,
Shone and shiver'd fast around thee-
Of the fate at last which found thee!
Was that haughty plume laid low
By a slave's dishonest blow?
Once-as the moon sways o'er the tide,
It roll'd in air, the warrior's guide;
Through the smoke-created night
Of the black and sulphurous fight,
The soldier raised his seeking eye
To catch that crest's ascendancy-
And, as it onward rolling rose,
So moved his heart upon our foes.
There, where death's brief pang was
quickest,

And the battle's wreck lay thickest, Strew'd beneath the advancing banner

Of the eagle's burning crest(There with thunder clouds to fan her, Who could then her wing arrestVictory beaming from her breast?) While the broken line enlarging Fell, or fled along the plain; There be sure was Murat charging There he ne'er shall charge again!

IV.

O'er glories gone the invader's march,
Weeps Triumph o'er each levell'd arch-
But let Freedom rejoice,
With her heart in her voice;
But her hand on her sword,
Doubly shall she be adored;

France hath twice too well been taught
The "moral lesson" dearly bought-
Her safety sits not on a throne,
With Capet or Napoleon!

But in equal rights and laws,

Hearts and hands in one great cause-
Freedom such as God hath given
Unto all beneath His heaven,

With their breath, and from their birth,
Though Guilt would sweep it from the

earth;

With a fierce and lavish hand
Scattering nations' wealth like sand;
Pouring nations' blood like water,
In imperial seas of slaughter!

V.

But the heart and the mind,
And the voice of mankind,
Shall arise in communion-

And who shall resist that proud union?
The time is past when swords subdued-
Man may die-the soul's renew'd:
Even in this low world of care
Freedom ne'er shall want an heir;
Millions breathe but to inherit
Her for ever bounding spirit-
When once more her hosts assemble,
Tyrants shall believe-and tremble:
Smile they at this idle threat?
Crimson tears will follow yet.

TO NAPOLEON.

FROM THE FRENCH.

MUST thou go, my glorious Chief,
Sever'd from thy faithful few?
Who can tell thy warriors' grief,
Maddening o'er that long adieu?
Woman's love, and friendship's zeal,
Dear as both have been to me-
What are they to all I feel,

With a soldier's faith for thee?
Idol of the soldier's soul!

First in fight, but mightiest now;
Many could a world control;
Thee alone no doom can bow.
By thy side for years I dared
Death; and envied those who fell,
When their dying shout was heard,
Blessing him they served so well.
Would that I were cold with those,

Since this hour I live to see;

When the doubts of coward foes
Scarce dare trust a man with thee,
Dreading each should set thee free!
Oh! although in dungeons pent,
All their chains were light to me,
Gazing on thy soul unbent.
Would the sycophants of him

Now so deaf to duty's prayer,
Were his borrow'd glories dim,

In his native darkness share? Were that world this hour his own, All thou calmly dost resign, Could he purchase with that throne

Hearts like those which still are thine? My chief, my king, my friend, adieu! Never did I droop before; Never to my sovereign sue, As his foes I now implore: All I ask is to divide

Every peril he must brave; Sharing by the hero's side

His fall, his exile, and his grave.

ON THE STAR OF THE LEGION OF HONOUR."

FROM THE FRENCH.

STAR of the brave !-whose beam hath shed
Such glory o'er the quick and dead-
Thou radiant and adored deceit,
Which millions rush'd in arms to greet,-
Wild meteor of immortal birth;
Why rise in Heaven to set on Earth?
Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays;
Eternity flash'd through thy blaze;
The music of thy martial sphere
Was fame on high and honour here;
And thy light broke on human eyes,
Like a volcano of the skies.

Like lava roll'd thy stream of blood,
And swept down empires with its flood;
Earth rock'd beneath thee to her base,
As thou didst lighten through all space:
And the shorn Sun grew dim in air,
And set while thou wert dwelling there
Before thee rose, and with thee grew,
A rainbow of the loveliest hue,

Of three bright colours, each divine,* And fit for that celestial sign;

For Freedom's hand had blended them,
Like tints in an immortal gem.

One tint was of the sunbean's dyes;
One, the blue depth of Seraph's eyes;
One, the pure Spirit's veil of white
Had robed in radiance of its light:
The three so mingled did beseem
The texture of a heavenly dream.
Star of the brave! thy ray is pale,
And darkness must again prevail !
But, O thou Rainbow of the free!
Our tears and blood must flow for thee.
When thy bright promise fades away,
Our life is but a load of clay.

And Freedom hallows with her tread
The silent cities of the dead;
For beautiful in death are they
Who proudly fall in her array;
And soon, O Goddess! may we be
For evermore with them or thee!

NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL.

FROM THE FRENCH.

FAREWELL to the Land where the gloom of glory

my

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I have warr'd with a world which vanquish'd me only

When the meteor of conquest allured me too far; I have coped with the nations which dread me thus lonely,

The last single captive to millions in war. Farewell to thee, France! when thy diadem crown'd me,

I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth; But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee,

Decay'd in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth.
Oh! for the veteran hearts that were wasted
In strife with the storm, when their battles were

won:

Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted,

Had still soar'd with eyes fix'd on victory's sun! Farewell to thee, France!-But when Liberty rallies

Once more in thy regions, remember me then,The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys; Though wither'd, thy tear will unfold it again. Yet, yet I may baffle the hosts that surround

us,

And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voiceArose and o'ershadow'd the earth with her There are links which must break in the chain that has bound us,

name

She abandons me now-but the page of her Then turn thee and call on the Chief of thy story, choice!

HEBREW MELODIES.

The subsequent poems were written at the request of my friend the Hon. Douglas Kinnaird for

a Selection of Hebrew Melodies.

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY.

SHE walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL
SWEPT.

THE harp the monarch minstrel swept,
The King of men, the loved of Heaven,
Which Music hallow'd while she wept

O'er tones her heart of hearts had given,
Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven!

*The tricolour.

It soften❜d men of iron mould,

It gave them virtues not their own; No ear so dull, no soul so cold,

That felt not, fired not to the tone,

Till David's lyre grew mightier than his throne.

It told the triumphs of our King,
It wafted glory to our God;

It made our gladden'd valleys ring,

The cedars bow, the mountains nod;

Its sound aspired to heaven and their abode! Since then, though heard on earth no more, Devotion and her daughter Love,

Still bid the bursting spirit soar

To sounds that seem as from above,
In dreams that day's broad light can not

remove.

IF THAT HIGH WORLD. IF that high world, which lies beyond Our own, surviving Love endears; If there the cherish'd heart be fond, The eye the same, except in tears-How welcome those untrodden spheres! How sweet this very hour to die! To soar from earth, and find all fears Lost in thy light-Eternity!

It must be so: 'tis not for self

That we so tremble on the brink; And striving to o'erleap the gulf,

Yet cling to Being's severing link. Oh! in that future let us think

To hold each heart the heart that shares; With them the immortal waters drink, And soul in soul grow deathless theirs!

THE WILD GAZELLE. THE wild gazelle on Judah's hills Exulting yet may bound, And drink from all the living rills That gush on holy ground: Its airy step and glorious eye May glance in tameless transport by: A step as fleet, an eye more bright, Hath Judah witness'd there; And o'er her scenes of lost delight Inhabitants more fair.

The cedars wave on Lebanon,

But Judah's statelier maids are gone! More blest each palm that shades those plains

Than Israel's scatter'd race; For, taking root, it there remains

In solitary grace:

It cannot quit its place of birth,
It will not live in other earth.

But we must wander witheringly,
In other lands to die:

And where our fathers' ashes be,
Our own may never lie:
Our temple hath not left a stone,
And Mockery sits on Salem's throne.

OH! WEEP FOR THOSE.

OH! weep for those that wept by Babel's stream,
Whose shrines are desolate, whose land a dream;
Weep for the harp of Judah's broken shell;
Mourn-where their God hath dwelt, the god-
less dwell!

And where shall Israel lave her bleeding feet?
And when shall Zion's songs again seem sweet?
And Judah's melody once more rejoice
The hearts that leap'd before its heavenly
voice?

Tribes of the wandering foot and weary breast,
How shall ye flee away and be at rest!
The wild-dove hath her nest, the fox his cave,
Mankind their country-Israel but the grave!

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JEPHTHA'S DAUGHTER.

SINCE our Country, our God-oh, my sire!
Demand that thy daughter expire;
Since thy triumph was bought by thy vow-
Strike the bosom that's bared for thee now!
And the voice of my mourning is o'er,
And the mountains behold me no more:
If the hand that I love lay me low,
There cannot be pain in the blow!
And of this, O my father! be sure-
That the blood of thy child is as pure
As the blessing I beg ere it flow,
And the last thought that soothes me below.
Though the virgins of Salem lament,
Be the judge and the hero unbent!
I have won the great battle for thee,
And my father and country are free!
When this blood of thy giving hath gush'd,
When the voice that thou lovest is hush'd,
Let my memory still be thy pride,
And forget not I smiled as I died!

OH! SNATCH'D AWAY IN BEAUTY'S

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Away! we know that tears are vain,

That death nor heeds nor hears distress:
Will this unteach us to complain?

Or make one mourner weep the less?
And thou-who tell'st me to forget
Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

MY SOUL IS DARK.

My soul is dark-oh! quickly string
The harp I yet can brook to hear;
And let thy gentle fingers fling

Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear.
If in this heart a hope be dear,

That sound shall charm it forth again:
If in these eyes there lurk a tear,
'Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain.
But bid the strain be wild and deep,
Nor let thy notes of joy be first:

I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep,
Or else this heavy heart will burst:
For it hath been by sorrow nursed,

And ached in sleepless silence long:
And now 'tis doom'd to know the worst,
And break at once-or yield to song.

I SAW THEE WEEP.

I SAW thee weep-the big bright tear
Came o'er that eye of blue;
And then methought it did appear
A violet dropping dew:

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