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tural dispositions ; to do so, it was necessary that her opinion: there was something so flattering in his not manners and sentiments should be equally free from expressed but implied sense of her superior knowledge constraint. In a confidential communication to the on the subject, that she was inspired with an unusual empress-mother, he explained his difficulties. Her ma. degree of confidence, and insensibly became warmed jesty was much pleased on hearing that such difficulties into enthusiasm. She described in glowing language existed, and that instead of being early initiated into the delight she took in her pencil-its all absorbing the vices and intrigues of a court, or hackneyed in its power, and the kind of magic with which it transmuted frivolous pleasures, the young lady should, in the pri- hours into minutes, and beguiled her of her time. The vacy of retirement, have been left to useful pursuits, pleased attention and deep interest with which she was and innocent and simple enjoyments; while charms, listened to, won her on and on in her details, until she thus withdrawn from public gaze, were enhanced in her suddenly paused, and blushed on recollecting that it was estimation. She thought it argued well for the wisdom a stranger to whom she was thus imparting her feelings and discretion of the Countess Sophia, under whose and opinions. Charmed with this undesigned commuimmediate control she knew the Elector had placed his nicativeness, and quickly penetrating the cause of the ward, and therefore unhesitatingly authorized her envoy emotion which had checked her flow of sentiment, he to communicate the object of his visit to that lady, took up the discourse where she had left it, and with an though she enjoined him still to conceal it from the Elec- enthusiasm equal to, and an eloquence that surpassed, her tor, lest his own interests might prompt him to bias the own, continued the subject, portraying his feelings on inclinations or conduct of his niece.

his first visit to Italy, and describing the objects by This communication was no sooner made, than the which he had been most charmed, until she forgot it was petite entrèe was granted, and Alexius admitted into a stranger with whom she was conversing, and with the the circle of select and intimate society.

frankness shown only to an old acquaintance, permitted Such an alliance for her young friend was beyond him to lead her to a table on which lay her drawings the most sanguine expectations of the Countess; and and port-folio, and to lean over her chair while she she determined, as far as it depended on her, to pro- showed him sketches she had made of ruined castles, mote a design so favorable to the interests of the lovely of mountain, and of river scenery, in her own country. orphan, from whom, however, it was to be concealed “Although,” said she, “I can scarcely conceive of by the especial and emphatic request of the Count. scenes more beautiful and picturesque than are found

Painting was a favorite employment of Amelia's; of on the banks of the Rhine-more wild and grand than all the accomplishments she had acquired, there was those of the Tyrolese-yet they want that charm atnone in which she so much delighted, or so much ex-tached to the very names of the rivers and mountains celled. She had a gallery attached to her private of Italy;" but, added she with a sigh, “I have never apartments, filled with the most rare and admired works been out of Germany, and most probably never shall of the first artists of the age, and some of the pieces of behold those storied countries poets have so enchantthe great masters of the Italian and Flemish schools. ingly described.” Favored visiters were sometimes allowed to visit this Engrossed by conversation so agreeable, and under gallery; the Countess Sophia could, therefore, without the influence of a sympathy to her so new, so exciting, exciting any suspicion of her real motive, pay this com- Amelia forgot the presence of the other strangers ; but pliment to Count Alexius--but as a farther precaution, the Countess more vigilant and experienced, remedied she asked him in company with several other gentle- this inattention, and by an exertion of her charming men, who had been recently introduced at court. She coloquial powers, so entertained and interested the invited them one morning, when she knew Amelia was other visitors, that they did not notice the singular deengaged in copying one of the pictures in the gallery.gree of favor bestowed on the Count; and he to preOn the Count's being presented to her, his keen and vent their doing so, had the prudence to make his bow earnest glance called up the ever ready blushes into her to the ladies and be the first to withdraw--not, how. ingenuous face, while for a moment her downcast eyes ever, until he had obtained permission from the Princess sought the ground, to escape his admiring gaze. The to bring her on the ensuing day a cabinet picture of sweetness of his voice and gentleness of his manner rare excellence, the subject of which they had been dissoon restored her self-possession, and excited even more cussing. than common interest, as she felt there was something, He returned home, charmed with this lovely young though she knew not what, in his manner, different creature: her genius, her talents, her beauty, were adfrom the courtesy and compliments of the other gen- mirable ; but they dwelt not on his mind. The almost tlemen; and she found herself, after a little conversa-infantine simplicity and guilelessness with which she had tion, involuntarily bestowing on him more attention pictured forth her feelings, and described to him the imthan on the rest of the company.

pressions made by the different objects of nature and Ilis remarks on the works of various masters, disco- art on her young fancy, were qualities so entirely new vered him to have a minute, as well as extensive know- to him, that they exerted sentiments more tender, more ledge of the history of the art; while the delicacy and interesting, than approval or admiration. He prized correctness of his criticism evinced the refinement and her sensibility and ingenuousness far beyond her genius justness of his taste. It was seldom she had received and acquirements. He recalled the beaming sweetness a visitor that so much pleased and interested her. He and intelligence of her countenance, its ever varying was utterly devoid of pretension, and made his remarks expression, as she spoke of the days of her childhood, with a modesty, that, while it raised the speaker in her her first excursions from home, and the sensations proown estimation, gratified her self-complacency by the duced by the novel scenes through which she hat apparently involuntary deference he attached to her passed. So glowing were the colors with which she

na,

BY W. GILMORE SIMMS.

invested these first impressions--so vivid the sketches | in possession, will be quite willing to forego all claim to which she drew, that he could almost fancy he was the body of Napoleon now, however unwilling to do so wandering with her amid the wild and picturesque it may have been on any previous occasion. scenery of the Tyrolesian mountains, along the rapid It will be seen, from the little poem which follows, Inn, or the broad and majestic Danube, and forgot for that we by no means approve of the design in view. the moment the apartment in which they stood, and we cannot, for ourselves, perceive the wonderful honor that not alone. During their whole conversation, which this transfer will do to the immortal subject of though speaking of works of art, there was no dis regard and consideration; nor can we be made exactly play-no pedantry--no pretension, so often the accom- to perceive in how much the column in the Place Venpaniments of superior acquirements--but simply the dome will prove more becoming as a monument for Naoutpourings of unsophisticated feelings, and a naturally poleon than the scene of his trials, death and final reenthusiastic disposition.

pose. In a moral point of view, the reasons we should urge against his removal, are, we think, full and con

clusive. The name of Napoleon is, perhaps, more perTHE TOMB OF NAPOLEON. fectly and intimately associated with that of St. Hele

than with any single spot upon the surface of the

globe. It bears to his life precisely the same relation A late French paper, giving an account of the ship- as the fifth act or catastrophe to the tragedy which it ping in the harbor of Toulon, states that “there is now concludes. The whole life is defective without it. in that port a vessel of the line, the Hercules, of which Here the whole history is comprised, and added up, and the decorations and internal splendor are little fitted for the sum total set down:- Finis Coronat Opus ! The warlike purposes, and seem more adapted for some glo- nations look to it first; and as, in the order of things, rious pageantry. It is conjectured by many, that the commonly, the previous life, achievements, successes and object of such an armament can be no other than to defcats, lead us only the more conclusively to the end, convey with adequate pomp the ashes of Napoleon from so do we refer to St. Helena as the most necessary St. Helena. Its guns are already on board, and it only chapter in the history of Napoleon. Again: Does not waits for a favorable wind to start on its mission of na- the necessity which now imposes the remains of her tional and European interest.”

victim upon her, lead us more directly to the shame of This conjecture may be true or not. It seems proba- England in this transaction? Is she not now doomed ble enough. It was a leading project of the new French to carry the proof of her dishonor about her? Is not dynasty, from its commencement, and one by which it is the possession of the bones of the captive, evidence of proposed, without question, to secure a certain and large his ungenerous and bitter captivity; and is not this the degree of popularity with the great mass, to remove the disgrace that England should be very willing forever to bones of Napoleon from the solitary isle where he suf- remove? But we anticipate the argument of the Poem. fered, to the enlivening territory over which he reigned.

Considered upon a principle of the natural sublime, Nor, at the first glance at the subject, would there seem where can we find a tomb more imposing-more suited any lack of propriety in this design. It was then into the individual by whom it is occupied, or one better tended to appropriate, as a fitting mausoleum for this calculated to inspire awe and veneration in the mind of sacred deposite, the column in the Place Vendome-a the spectators, than the “Ocean-isle”-removed as it is beautiful monument framed from the cannon taken by from the crowded mart-silent, rocky, solitary-washed Napoleon at the battle of Austerlitz.

by opposing waters—chafed by the unfettered winds Whether this design is persisted in or not we cannot that sweep over it from every quarter-with the natural say, nor is it necessary. For the purposes of poetry, sublimity of which, the puerilities of society cannot the mere suggestion is enough. A pageant like the one conflict, nor the little characteristics of busy life come proposed will have its living uses, and perhaps blind the in collision? Who will deny that such a tomb is more eyes of many who might otherwise see too much. In in character with the life of the mighty exile-his this event the dead Napoleon may be of far more ser

achievements, sufferings and death-than any mere vice to Louis Philippe than the living Emperor ever yet fabric, the design and the erection of man, situated in proved himself to any of the Bourbon family; and the a crowded city, and made so familiar and common to the bones of the dead lion will thus, by a sort of retributive vulgar concerns of life, that, in a short time, in spite of justice, give strength and help to that power upon which all the associations connected with its mighty tenant, the lion, while living, was cver intent to prey. Cer- even the man of taste, along with the artisan, fails to tainly the proposed pageant is peculiarly calculated to perceive, or cannot stop to enjoy it. But, to the verses. take captive the imagination, and win the affections of the volatile and ardent people for whom it is intended; and we shall not wonder to behold the entire nation, with Louis Philippe at its head, engaged in a friendly Well fancied, cunning! 'tis thy art crusade with the British government for the attainment To choose a virtue's show, of this novel project. England (unless Sir Hudson And wear the semblance of a heart Lowe puts in some extraordinary claims for careful Thine own may never know;keeping,) will no doubt, in such an event, readily give Thus England's insolent pretence, up her lien upon the relics of the mighty Corsican, nor Would claim for freedom sole defence, render it necessary, for those concerned in this pilgrim And let her bondsmen go,age, to assume a less peaceable or less sacred character. Unschoold and sarage, wild and rude, We think it not at all unlikely, indeed, that the country To sink in deeper servitude.

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Thus would they now!--A pagcant's show,

The shouting and acclaim,
Would blind them to the fatal blow,

And soothe them to its shame!--
Why should they seek his bones, to whom
They left the prisoner-exile's doom ?

What can they yield of fame?His foc in life, they drew no breath, 'Till his had ever lapsed in death.

V

What were a swelling spire to thce,

Whose glory, like the sun,
The world, the living world, must see,

And earth can never shun-
No single spot, whate'er its name,
Can add one atom to thy fame,-

Thou art that single one,
Whose majesty of self must make
Each spot a trophy for thy sake.

XI
And far more fit unto thy pride

That still thy form should sleep Within that tomb where thou wast tried

With tortures keen and deep!Of old, the martyr bore the wood, On which he pour'd his choicest blood,

And fitter thou should'st keep, Upon that isle of settled gloom Which saw thee suffer, still, thy tomb.

What would they with his bones? He stood,

When realms were blazing round,
And all his country's veins ran blood,

O'er Moscow's frozen ground-
He bade his locust armies haste,
O’er Egypt's wild and pathless waste,

Nor deem'd the Alps a bound!-
Would they, for such as he, command
A tomb built up by human hand!

VI

XII

More than triumphal arch can be,

That isle is now thine own, And nations oft'ner look to thee

Than to the imperial throne It is not now Helena's strand Nor gaoler, England's subject land

Her ruling claim is gone,– Since first thy sepulchre she reard, To bury one the nations fear'd.

That were a fall, indeed, for him

Who in his hour of might, Beheld his day-star never dim,

'Till nature joined the fight! Nor, 'till the northern God had striven, Leagued with the mightier arm of heaven,

Against his warrior flight-
Bade his fierce eagles turn and fly
From blazing realm and freezing sky.

VII
For thee we make the monument

Of things which ne'er decay;
Which, when the wrath of time is spent,

May laugh to scorn his sway-
The monarch deem'd legitimate
May thank his stars and honor fate

For shrines of crumbling clay ;-
But in thy destiny we see,
That nature builds thy tomb for thee.

XIII

Sleep in thy grave of triumph high,

Thy fame its ruling God; It is not to the pilgrim's eye,

A desolate abode! The sun that cheers thy rocky grave, Beholds that wild and gloomy wave,

By earth's wayfarers trodFrom nations, far remote, they steer To honor him who slumbers there.

XIV

THE SUICIDE'S GRAVE.

A FRAGMENT.

I

They need no tablet to denote,

Thy triumph and thy pride;They ask,—"Is this the lonely spot

Where great Napoleon died !"
The sculptured stone, the trophied bust
Were but a mockery of thy dust,

When Albion these denied,
A greater trophy than her will,
She gave thy fame in trembling still.

ху

Her shame becomes thy trophy then,

And when thy deeds shall be
A doubtful record among men,

Her fears shall honor thee.
The captive in his prison hall-
The nations say-could still appal

The mistress of the sea;
Could still, like Eblis, thrown and bound,
Rock the whole earth's foundations round.

There is a deep glen where the mountain birds roam,

To gather the luckless prey perishing there ;-That glen is the heart-broken suicide's home,

It shelters his bones, and it still’d his despair. Beneath a grey stone by some unknown hand placed,

He sleeps all in silence--his sorrows are o'er,-And the sharp stings of fortune that wounded his breast,

Secure where he sleeps, cannot torture him more. Time often hath spread his chill winys from the spot,

Unattended as yet by his sister decay,--Save, when the lone traveller who pities his lot,

Bears, from his rude grave-stone, some fragment away. And often the shepherd by night overtaken,

Peeps over the glen with a tremulous eye --
He dreads that its tenant may once more awaken,

And sees, in each shadow, the spectre pass by.
He hurries quick onward--each moment still glancing

His wild eye behind him for fear of surprise, And when the wind whistles, the forest leaves dancing,

His heart palpitating, his fortitude dies. And what does he dread from thee-wherefore his

terror?-He knows thou wert wrong'd by his fellows and thine, But childish the dread and but foolish the error,

The ghost walks, his deeds to repair or repine. Go, make thee a lesson and rule from his fate,

Whatsoever his crimes or his frailties,—thy laws Should measure the man by the mark of his mate,

And condemn not the deed, till thou searchest the

XVI

And not like wild but warlike foes

Did each brave ally dare;-
Herded, the monarchs met thy blows,

Nor then conceal’d their fear.
They trembled, though o'erthrown, to chain
Their captive in their own domain,-

But, in the ocean drear,
They call'd upon the rocks and sea
To yield a prison meet for thee.

XVII

cause.

II

There take thy rest-mausoleum meet

Which gathering worlds may see,
A column in a princely street

Could add no pride to thee;
For genius less supreme than thine
The brass of Austerlitz may shine,

And fit memorial be-
For him whose life was one long chain
Of glorious victories, it were vain.

* * *

TO MISS C. P. W *

OF WILLIAMSBURG. By a Student of William and Mary College. With fragrant lip, like op'ning rose, Moistened with May-morn's pearly showerWith brow as pure as the feath'ry snows, That fall on April's first-born flowerWith dark eye bright as the diamond's sheen, Yet soft as Hesper's undimmed ray, When gemming the brow of pensive e'en, It courts the song of the plaintive fay, While looking forth from her rose-wreath'd bower, She watches the flight of each dewy hour: But though eye be bright, and brow be fair, And wavy the curl of her glossy hairThough sweet be the nectar of tempting lip, And her step be light as fairy-queen's trip, Yet give me the voice, like the harp's soft breath, When a snow-winged angel sings on high, With note far sweeter than zephyr's sigh!

And who is he who slumbers here,
Go-trace the annals of despair, -
Search, if its deepest page can tell,
Who brighter lived, who darker fell,-
With whom did hope more fondly prove,
The light, the very life, of love,
Or, win the undoubting sense away,

In fond pursuit of one young flow'r,
To seek for life-to find decay,

And rank corruption in his bow'r-
To waste the strength and pride of years,

And for his bride, and joyous dow'r,
To woo the false, and win but tears !
What were the hopes that warm'd his youth,

And wrought his fate so dark and dread, And for his early dream of truth,

Gave blight and bitterness instead ! Tell of the sad--the stern despair,

By falsehood roused, by madness crown'd, Which, like a whirlwind, swept him bare,

And stript, and prostrate, on the ground. Paint the false heart, the fatal charms,

That bird-like voice, that serpent eye, That won his faith, and in her arms,

Mock'd his fond woes, and bade him die.

III

He won her in a gentle hour,
When truth and tenderness had pow'r,

Vol. III.-47

VI

And the moon was sailing the blue above,
And the air was full of a breath of love!-
How could he dream in so sweet a time,
Of the lip deceit, and the wanton crime !--
How could he dream on that blessed even,

That the spirit was false, whose accents fell

On his glad soul like a breathing spell, Out from that summer and cloudless heaven!

But where is she, that false one-where?

He slew her, yet he left her not:
With strength from out his own despair,

He bore her to a lonely grot,
That by the ocean reard its form,
Rugged and kindred to the storm-
And watched the face, no longer fair,
With a strange countenance of care;
And murmur'd to the unconscious ear,
In tones so fond, and words so dear,
That did not well beseem the blow,
Struck by his desperate hand in wo.

IV

VII

And she hath uttered many a vow-

And with a tongue that does not falter ;

Her eye doth neither bend nor alter,
Yet there is falsehood on her brow,
And faithless was her heart, that grew-

When years of wrong had wrought even wo,

To her, as to all else below,-Into a blight that crush'd it too! 'Twere idle now for pen to trace, Each step from falsehood to disgrace, How all her vows of love were slighted, And true faith broken once fondly plighted, And truth dishonor'd, and love deniedMatilda is another's bride!Greater riches have greater charms, She fled her early lover's side, And falsely filled another's arms. She reck'd not the promise, she laugh'd at the vow,

And scorning the heart she had won, She taunted his grief with the smile on her brow,

And triumph'd when he was undone.

And strangers watch'd his look of bale

And marvel'd much of what they saw,They heard not of the fearful tale,

Wrought ’gainst the shows of human law; Nor knew the trade the maniac drove, From out the pale of human love; While on the cold and clammy ground, He clasp'd the mouldering form around, And, in his mental sight's eclipse,

Each other sense subdued the while, He press’d the foul and putrid lips,

And each contortion deem'd a smile. Where once had heaved that human breast,

To him inhuman and untrue, His maniac fingers fondly press'dAnd in his spirit's wild unrest,

He dream'd it gave him pressure too. He bore aloft the lifeless clay,

Nor felt its weight; nor seem'd to guessThough scaring still the birds away That hoverd, hungering for their prey

Its chill and ing lifelessness.

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VIII

And in his heart and in his brain,
He felt a sharp and sudden pain,
And from that sad and fearful hour
The voice of reason had no power;
And in the wild and bitter mood,
That came and fever'd all his blood,
He stabb'd her in the well-known bow'r,
When, in that luckier lover's arms,
She gave up all her charms.
Yet him he slew not, though the knife
Was lifted o'er his prostrate life--
It was his vengeance not to slay,

And quench the pang he sought to make, But he would watch, by slow decay,

The lingering cords of being breakBy his own feeling well he knew,

If that he loved her, it must be,
A stroke of grace to slay him too!

And the bare thought was misery,
That, in that other land, they might,
Once more, to his despair, unite,
In bonds no blow of his could break.
He doom'd his foe to life-the wo
Of loneliness, for aye, below;
He would not have life's chords undone,
But see them breaking one by one,
Tent every wound, and note the life,

By each wild agony and start,
And trace, with gnashing tooth, the knife,

Work slowly to the shrinking heart.

And then in words so often known,
He spoke to her in gentlest tone,
And bade her list the pleasing tale,

With which he would at eve repair,

When she was haply true as fair, Her willing spirit to regale!

Nor did he dream of his despair, Nor utter forth a single wail, Though sometimes then, a painful sense Of that dead form's incompetence, O'ercame his spirit--yet, even then His madness would return again, And kindly quick, would straightway dim That sight which were a hell to him. Then, as if fearing evil nigh, His voice went forth in fearful cry, To those dull ears, which moment-thought Would sometimes tell him, heard not aughtThen would he ask, with sudden power,

For the gone lustre of her eye,

That always shone when he was nigh,
And bless'd him in his boyhood's hour,
And still should kindle up to cheer-
When he was watchful still and near!-

But then, the sense of winter there,
The silence, sterner than despair,-

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