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NAPOLEON AT EEST.
BY J. PIERPONT.
His falchion flashed along the Nile,
O'er Moscow's towers, that blazed the while,
Here sleeps he now, alone ! — not one,
Bends o'er his dust; nor wife nor son
Behind the sea-girt rock, the star
That led him on from crown to crown
Has sunk, and nations from afar
High is his tomb: the ocean flood,
As round him heaved, while high he stood,
NAPOLEON AT REST. 151
Alone he sleeps: the mountain cloud,
That night hangs round him, and the breath
Of morning scatters, is the shroud
Pause here! The far-off world at last
Breathes free; the hand that shook its thrones
And to the earth its mitres cast,
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.
BY CHARLES SPBAGUE.
God of the glorious Lyre!
While Jove's exulting choir
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,
When, through golden clouds descending,
O'er nature's lovely pageant bending,
154 SHAKSPEARE ODE.
There, on its bank, beneath the mulberry's shade,
On his lips thy spirit fell,
Then Shakspeare rose!
Madness, with his frightful scream,
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.