NAPOLEON AT REST. BY J. PIERPONT. His falchion flashed along the Nile, 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 curledAs 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 Europe's hills, a voice that bids The only, the perpetual dirge That's heard here, is the sea-bird's cryThe mournful murmur of the surge, The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh. 151 SHAKSPEARE ODE. BY CHARLES SPRAGUE. 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- 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, Lighting there and lingering long, Thy fingers strung his sleeping shell, And bade him wake and warm the world! Then Shakspeare rose! His daring hand he flings, And lo! a new creation glows! There, clustering round, submissive to his will, Madness, with his frightful scream, Vengeance, leaning on his lance, 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, Arm in arm with fresh-eyed Wit, That waves his tingling lash, while Folly shakes his bell. |