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NAPOLEON AT EEST.

BY J. PIERPONT.

His falchion flashed along the Nile,
His host he led through Alpine snows,

O'er Moscow's towers, that blazed the while,
His eagle-flag unrolled—and froze!

Here sleeps he now, alone ! — not one,
Of all the kings whose crowns he gave,

Bends o'er his dust; nor wife nor son
Has ever seen or sought his grave.

Behind the sea-girt rock, the star

That led him on from crown to crown

Has sunk, and nations from afar
Gazed as it faded and went down.

High is his tomb: the ocean flood,
Far, far below, by storms is curled—

As round him heaved, while high he stood,
A stormy and unstable world.

NAPOLEON AT REST. 151

Alone he sleeps: the mountain cloud,

That night hangs round him, and the breath

Of morning scatters, is the shroud
That wraps the conqueror's clay in death.

Pause here! The far-off world at last

Breathes free; the hand that shook its thrones

And to the earth its mitres cast,
Lies powerless now beneath these stones.

Hark! Comes there from the pyramids,

And from Siberian wastes of snow, And Europe's hills, a voice that bids

The world be awed to mourn him ? — No!

The only, the perpetual dirge

That's heard here, is the sea-bird's cry— The mournful murmur of the surge,

The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh.

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SHAKSPEARE ODE.

BY CHARLES SPBAGUE.

God of the glorious Lyre!
Whose notes of old on lofty Pindus rang,

While Jove's exulting choir
Caught the glad echoes and responsive sang—
Come! bless the service and the shrine,

We consecrate to thee and thine.

Fierce from the frozen north,

When havoc led his legions forth,

O'er Learning's sunny groves the dark destroyer spread;

In dust the sacred statue slept,

Fair Science round her altars wept,

And Wisdom cowled his head.

At length, Olympian Lord of morn,
The raven veil of night was torn,

When, through golden clouds descending,
Thou didst hold thy radiant flight,

O'er nature's lovely pageant bending,
Till Avon rolled, all-sparkling, to thy sight!

154 SHAKSPEARE ODE.

There, on its bank, beneath the mulberry's shade,
Wrapp'd in young dreams, a wild-eyed minstrel strayed.
Lighting there and lingering long,
Thou didst teach the bard his song;
Thy fingers strung his sleeping shell,
And round his brows a garland curled;

On his lips thy spirit fell,
And bade him wake and warm the world!

Then Shakspeare rose!
Across the trembling strings
His daring hand he flings,
And lo! a new creation glows!
There, clustering round, submissive to his will,
Fate's vassal train his high commands fulfil.

Madness, with his frightful scream,
Vengeance, leaning on his lance,
Avarice, with his blade and beam,
Hatred, blasting with a glance;
Remorse, that weeps, and Rage, that roars,
And Jealousy, that dotes, but dooms, and murders, yet
adores.

Mirth, his face with sun-beams lit, Waking laughter's merry swell, Arm in arm with fresh-eyed Wit, That waves his tingling lash, while Folly shakes his bell.

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