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NAPOLEON AT FEST.
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.
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.
BY CHARLES SPRAGUE.
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,
In dust the sacred statue slept,
And Wisdom cowled his head.
At length, Olympian Lord of morn,
When, through golden clouds descending,
O’er nature's lovely pageant bending,
There, on its bank, beneath the mulberry's shade,
Lighting there and lingering long,
Thy fingers strung his sleeping shell,
On his lips thy spirit fell,
Then Shakspeare rose !
His daring hand he flings,
And lo! a new creation glows !
Madness, with his frightful scream,
Vengeance, leaning on his lance,
Hatred, blasting with a glance;
Mirth, his face with sun-beams lit,
Arm in arm with fresh-eyed Wit,