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NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL.

( FROM THE FRENCH.)

FAREWELL to the land where the gloom of my glory
Arose and o'ershadowed the earth with her name
She abandons me now,--but the page of her story,
The brightest or blackest, is filled with my fame.
I have warred with a world which vanquished me only
When the meteor of conquest allured me too far; :
I have coped with the nations which dread me thus lonely,
The last single captive to millions in war!

Farewell to thee, France !-when thy diadem crowned me,
I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth,
But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee,
Decayed in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth.
Oh! for the veteran hearts that were wasted .
In strife with the storm, when their battles were won
Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted,
Had still soared with eyes fixed on victory's sun!

Farewell to thee, France !—but when Liberty rallies
Once more in thy regions, remember me then-
The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys;
Though withered, thy tears will unfold it again -
Yet, yet, I may baffle the hosts that surround us,
And yet may thy heart awake to my voice-
There are links which must break in the chain that has bound us,
Then turn thee and call on the chief of thy choice!

TO NAPOLEON.

( FROM THE FRENCH.)

« All wept, but particularly Savary, and a Polish officer who

had been exalted from the ranks by Bonaparte. He clung to his master's knees, wrote a letter to Lord Keith, entreating permission to accompany him, even in the most menial capacity, which could not be admitted. »

Must thou go, my glorious chief,

Severed from thy faithful few?
Who can tell thy warrior's grief,

Maddening o'er that long adieu ?
Woman's love, and friendship’s zeal,

Dear as both have been to me--
What are they to all I feel,

With a soldier's faith for thee?

OW:

Idol of the soldier's soul !

First in fight, but mightiest now:
Many could a world controul;

Thee alone no doom can bow.
By thy side for years I dared

Death; and envied those who fell,
When their dying shout was heard,

Blessing him they served so well.

3.

Would that I were cold with those,

Since this hour I live to see; When the doubts of coward foes

Scarce dare trust a man with thee, Dreading each should set thee free.

Oh! although in dungeons pent, All their chains were light to me,

Gazing on thy soul unbent.

Would the sycophants of him

Now so deaf to duty's prayer, Were his borrowed glories dim,

In his native darkness share ? Were that world this hour his own,

All thou calmly dost resign, Could he purchase with that throne

Hearts like those which still are thine ?

My chief, my king, my friend, adieu!

Never did I droop before; Never to my sovereign sue,

As his foes I now implore. All I ask is to divide

Every peril he must brave, Sharing by the hero's side,

His fall, his exile, and his grave.

ODE
ON WATERLOO-BATTLE.

(FROM THE FRENCH. )

I.

We do not curse thee, Waterloo ! Though Freedoin’s blood thy plain bedewi There 'twas shed, but is not sunk Rising from each gory trunk, Like the Water-spout from Ocean, With a strong and growing motionIt soars, and mingles in the air, With that of lost LABEDOYERE— With that of him whose honoured grave Contains the « bravest of the brave. »

A crimson cloud it spreads and glows, . But shall return to whence it rose ; When 'tis full 'twill burst asunderNever yet was heard such thunder As then shall shake the world with wonderNever yet was seen such lightning, As o'er heaven shall then be bright’ning ! Like the Wormwood Star foretold By the sainted Seer of old, Show'ring down a fiery flood, Turning rivers into blood.

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The chief has fallen, but not by you,
Vanquishers of Waterloo !

When the soldier citizen
Swayed not o'er his fellow men
Save in deeds that led them on
Where Glory smiļd on Freedom's sons
Who, of all the despots banded,

With that youthful chief competed ?
Who could boast o'er France defeated,
Till lone Tyranny commanded ?
Till, goaded by ambition's sting,
The Hero sunk into the King?
Then he felt; So perish all,
Who would men by man enthral!

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And thou too of the snow-white plume!
Whose realm refused thee ey'n a tomb;
Better badst thou still been leading
France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding,
Than sold thyself to death and shame
For a meanly royal name;
Such as he of Naples wears,
Who thy blood-bought title bears.
Little didst thou deem, when dashing

On thy war-horse through the ranks,

Like a stream which burst its banks, While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing, Shone and shivered fast around thee , Of the fate at last which found thee; Was that haughty plume laid low By a slave's dishonest blow? Once-as the Moon sways o’er the tide, It rolled in air, the warrior's guide ;

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