The tempest is hushed, and the Eagle is dead!
His thunderbolts fly and his wings clap no more!
The plumes that to war and to victory led,
For ever lie folded on Helena's shore.
But where is the tomb that should mark the repose,
Of that bright flaming comet on history's pages?
Or the shrine which the bay and the laurel crown strews,
Where the song echoes loudly-the wonder of ages ?
Beneath the deep shade of a mute willow only,
O'er his still honoured relics pale history weeps: And a letterless stone, midst its mountains so lonely, Alone marks the spot where Napoleon sleeps.
A few heartfelt tears at his burial fell,
But no orphan, or parent, or widow, was there, And friendship alone oped its tear-crystal well,
To water the willows which mourn for him here,
But tears do not speak all the anguish of grief,
'Tis deeper when pain stops the springs of the eye; When the heart is confined and deprived of relief, In the sweet balm of nature, the tear or the sigh.
And the soldier still heaves in his soul that deep sigh, When he thinks on his glory, remembers his wars, And with mourning of sorrow which never can die, Still honours his name, and is proud of his scars.
Immortal with man when mausoleums are rotten,
While genius is honoured and conquests enhance, He shall need not the praises of the early forgotten, His fame is impressed on the bosom of France!
Barren isle! that dost hold in thy sea-beaten bosom,
His ashes-be proud of the treasure that's there;
For pilgrims for ages shall scatter their blossom,
'Till thy deserts smile lovely, thy rocks become fair.
Hulbert.
The hour arrives, the moment wished and feared!
The child is born by many a pang endeared,
cry,
And now the mother's ear has caught his
Oh grant the cherub to her asking eye!
He comes- -she clasps him. To her bosom pressed,
He drinks the balm of life, and drops to rest.
Her by her smile how soon the stranger knows;
How soon by his the glad discovery shows!
As to her lips she lifts the lovely boy,
What answering looks of sympathy and joy!
He walks, he speaks, in many a broken word
His wants, his wishes, and his griefs are heard,
And ever, ever, to her lap, he flies,
When rosy sleep comes on with sweet surprise.
Locked in her arms, his arms across her flung,
(That name most dear for ever on his tongue)
As with soft accents round her neck he clings,
And, cheek to cheek, her lulling song she sings;
How blest to feel the beatings of his heart,
Breathe his sweet breath, and kiss for kiss impart;
Watch o'er his slumbers like the brooding dove,
And, if she can, exhaust a mother's love!
But soon a nobler task demands her care,
Apart she joins his little hands in prayer,
Telling of Him who sees in secret there!
And now the volume on her knee has caught
His wandering eye-now many a written thought
Never to die, with many a lisping sweet
His moving, murmuring lips endeavour to repeat.
Released he chases the bright butterfly;
Oh he would follow-follow through the sky!
Climbs the gaunt mastiff slumbering in his chain,
And chides and buffets, clinging by the mane;
Then runs, and kneeling by the fountain side,
Sends his brave ship in triumph down the tide,
A dangerous voyage; or, if now he can,
If now he wears the habit of a man,
Flings off the coat so long his pride and pleasure,
And like a miser digging for his treasure,
His tiny spade in his own garden plies,
And in green letters sees his name arise!
Where'er he goes, for ever in her sight,
She looks, and looks, and still with new delight.
Ah who, when fading of itself away,
Would cloud the sunshine of his little day!
Now is the May of life. Careering round,
Joy wings his feet, joy lifts him from the ground!
Pointing to such, well might Cornelia say,
When the rich casket shone in bright array,
These are my jewels!' Well of such as he, When Jesus spake, well might his language be, • Suffer these little ones to come to me!'
To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell,
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene,
Where things that own not man's dominion dwell,
And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been;
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen,
With the wild flock that never needs a fold;
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean; This is not solitude; 'tis but to hold
Converse with nature's charms, and view her stores un
rolled.
But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men,
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess,
And roam along the world's tired denizen,
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless;
Minions of splendour shrinking from distress!
None that, with kindred consciousness endued,
If we were not, would seem to smile the less,
Of all that flattered, followed, sought and sued,
This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!
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