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High in the midst a monument arose,
Of pale enduring marble; calm and still,

It seemed a statue of sublime repose,
The silent speaker of a sculptor's will.

Its sides were hung around With boughs of evergreen; and its long shaft was crowned With a bright laurel-wreath, And glittering beneath Were piled large heaps of gold upon the ground. Children were playing near—fair boys and girls, Who shook their sunny curls, And laughed and sang in mirthfulness of spirit, And in their childish pleasures Danced around the treasures Of gold and honor they were to inherit.

The sight has fired his brain;
Onward he springs again,
O'er ruined blocks
Of wild and perilous rocks,
Through long damp caves; o'er pitfalls dire,’
And maddening scenes of blood and fire,
Fainting with heat,
Benumbed with cold,
With weary, aching feet,
He sternly toils, and presses on to greet
The monument, the laurels, and the gold.

Years have passed by; a shattered form
Leans faintly on a monument,
His glazing eyes are bent
In sadness down : a tear falls to the ground,
That through the furrows of his cheek hath wound.
The children beautiful have ceased to play,
Tarnished the marble stands with dark decay,
The laurels all are dead, and flown the gold away.

Once more he raised his eyes; before him lay
A dim and lonely vale,
And feebly tottering in the downward way
Walked spectres cold and pale.
And darkling groves of shadowy cypress sprung
Among the damp clouds that around them hung.
One vision only cheers his aching sight;
Those wings of light
Have lost their varied hues, and changed to white,
And, with a gentle motion, slowly wave,
Over a new made grave.
He casts one faltering, farewell look behind,
Around, above, one mournful glance he throws,
Then with a cheerful smile, and trusting mind,
Moves feebly toward the valley of repose.
He stands above the grave; dull shudders creep
Along his limbs, cold drops are on his brow,
One sigh he heaves, and sinking into sleep
He drops, and disappears o: dropping now,
The wings have followed too,
But, lo! new visions burst upon the view,
They reappear in glory bright and new
And to their sweet embrace a soul is given,
And on the wings of HoPE an angel flies to HEAven.

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Achille, the eldest son of Murat formerly king of the two Sicilies, is now a

lanter in Florida. Fleeing from France

e came to our country, and found an asylum on our shores, the place of refuge to so many of those stern and restless spirits that once unsettled Europe from her repose. Kings, and princes, and marshals, and nobles, have in turn been forced to take shelter under our eagle, to escape imprisonment and death at home. The life and fate of Murat were forcibly recalled to us, not long since, as we stood in his palace, near Naples—left just as he furnished it, and gazed on his portrait, still hanging where he placed it. It is singular that we have no good biographies of Bonaparte's distinguished generals. Many of them being men of striking intellectual qualities, great military ability, heroic courage, and with lives filled with great actions and thrilling adventures, they surnish materials for most lively and interesting sketches, which notwithstanding have never been written. The French revolution brought strange beings to the surface, of whose existence man never dreamed before. Demagogues and statesmen and orators rose in turn from the heretofore despised mass, and disputed with kings, as if accustomed their lifelong to such encounters. And as the revolution called out what intellectual force was in the French people, so did Bonaparte's wonderful career bring into the field whatever military talent and genius the nation possessed. The young Corsican, rising steadily by his great achievements from a subaltern in the artillery to the commander-in-chief of the French army, drew all eyes and hearts after him. Besides, the same causes which called out the energies of Napoleon, brought forth also those of other men. The formation of a republican army, led by republican generals, left the field of fame open to every aspirant, and thousands rushed on it, some to succeed and many to fall. This sudden removal of all privileges and prerogatives, and appealing simply to the entire native force and talent of a people, develop strength and power that are ab

solutely awful. The almost miraculous growth of our own country exhibits the extent and greatness of this power exerted in the peaceful channels of commerce and internal improvements; while the empire of France, overshadowing Europe and making playthings of thrones, illustrates the force of this hidden strength when concentrated into armies. The utter breaking up of old systems and old ranks, and the summoning to the battlefield, by a continent in arms, exhausted the entire military talent of France. Three classes of men especially rejoiced in the state of things that made great military deeds the sure road to fame and fortune. The first was composed of those stern and powerful men whose whole inherent force must out in action or slumber on forever. In peaceful times they make but common men, for there is nothing on which they can expend the prodigious active energy they possess; but in agitated times, when a throne can be won by a strong arm and a daring spirit, they arcuse themselves, and move amid the tumult completely at home. At the head of this class stands Marshal Ney—the proud, stern, invincible soldier, who acquired the title of “the bravest of the brave.” A second class of reckless, daring spirits, who love the excitement of danger, and the still greater excitement of gaining or losing every thing on a single throw, always flourish in great commotions. in times of peace they would be distinguished only as roving adventurers or reckless dissipated youth of some country village. In war they often perform desperate deeds, and by their headlong valor secure for themselves a place among those who go down to immortality. At the head of this class stands Marshal Junot, who * the sobriquet of “ la tempote,” “the tempest.” A third class is composed of the few men left of a chivalric age. They have an innate love of glory from their youth, and live more by imagination in the days of knighthood, than amid the practical scenes that surround them. Longing for the field where great deeds are to be done, they cannot be forced into the severe and steady mental labor necessary to success in ordinary times. To them life is worthless, destitute of brilliant achievements, and there is nothing brilliant that is not outwardly so. In peace such men simply do nothing, and dream away half their life, while the other half is made up of blunders, and good and bad impulses. But in turbulent times they are your decided characters. The doubts and opposing reasons that distract others have no influence over them. Following their impulses, they move to a higher feeling than the mere calculator of good and evil At the head of this class stands, as a patriot, the lazy Patrick Henry, and as a warrior, the chivalric Murat. The latter, however, was an active, rather than a passive dreamer—pursuing, rather than contemplating, a fancied good, and he acquired the name of the “prieur chevalier.” Joachim Murat was born March 25th, 1767, in Bastide, a little village, twelve miles from Cahors. His father was the landlord of a little tavern in the place. He was honest and industrious, with a large family, differing in no way from the children of any other country landlord, with the exception of Joachim, who was regarded the most reckless, daring boy in the place. He rode a horse like a young Bedouin, and it was around his father's stable, he first acquired that firm and easy seat in the saddle, that afterwards made him the most remarkable horseman of his age. The high and fiery spirit of the boy marked him out at an early age, as a child of promise, and he became the Benjamin of his parents. The father had once been a steward in the Talleyrand family, and through its influence young Murat was received, at nine years of age, into the college of Cahors, and entered on a course of studies, preparatory to the church. Young Murat was destined by his parents to the priestly office, for which he was about as much fitted by nature as Talleyrand himself. But nothing could make a scholar of him. Neglecting his studies and engaged in every frolic, he was disliked by his instructors and beloved by his companions. The “Abbé Murat,” as he was jocularly termed, did nothing that corresponded to his title, but on the contrary every thing opposed to it. His teachers prophesied evil of him, and declared him, at length, fit for nothing but a soldier, and they, for once, were right. Leaving Cahors he entered

*Vie publique et privée de JoAcHIM MURAT, composée d'apres des materiaux authentique la plupart inconnue et contenant des particularités ineditée sur ses premiers

années. PARIs.

the college at Toulouse no wiser than when he commenced his ecclesiastical education. Many adventures are told of him while at the latter place, which, whether apocryphal or not, were all worthy of the reckless young libertine. At length, falling in love with a pretty girl of the city, he fought for her, and carrying off his Fo lived with her concealed till the ast sous was gone, and then appeared among his companions again. This put an end to his clerical hopes, and throwing off his professional garb he enlisted in a fit of desperation into a regiment of chasseurs that happened at that time to be passing through the city. Becoming tired of the restraint of the camp, he wrote to his brother to obtain his dismission, which was promised, on condition he would resume his theological studies. The promise was given, and he returned to his books, but the ennui of such a life was greater than that of a camp, and he soon left school and went to his father's house, and again employed himself in the stables. Disgusted with the business of an ostler, he again entered the army. The third time he became sick of his employmant, and asked for his dismissal. It was about this time he cheated an old miser out of a hundred francs, by passing off a gilded snuff-box for a gold one. But money was not the motive that prompted him to this trick. A young friend had enlisted in the army, and had no way of escape except '. raising a certain sum of money, whic was out of his power to do. It was to obtain this for his friend, Murat cheated the old man. But the revolution beginning now to agitate Paris, Murat’s spirit took fire, and having obtained a situation in the constitutional guard of Louis Sixteenth, he hastened with young Bessières, born in the same village, to the capital, and there laid the foundation of his after career, which made him the most distinguished of Napoleon's marshals. An ultra-republican ; his sentiments, of which he made no secret, often brought him into difficulty, so that it is said he fought six duels in a single month. At this time he was twenty-two years of age, tall, handsome, and almost perfectly formed, and with a gait and bearing that made him the admiration of every beholder. During the reign of terror he was a violent republican, and advanced through the grades of lieutenant and captain to that of major. In 1795 having been of some service to Napoleon in Paris, the latter when he was appointed to command the army in Italy, made him a member of his personal staff. Here, beside the rising Corsican, commenced his brilliant career. With the words, “Honor and the Ladies,” engraved on the blade of his sword—words characteristic of the chivalric spirit of the man, he passed through the Italian campaign second only to Bonaparte in the valorous deeds that were wrought. At Montenotte, Milesimo, Dego, Mondovi, Rivoli, &c. he proved the clear sightedness of Napoleon in selecting him for a companion in the o path he had marked out for himself. He was made the bearer of the colors taken in this campaign, to the Directory, and was promoted to the rank of general of brigade. He soon after accompanied Bonaparte to Egypt, where he grew weary and discontented in the new warfare he had to encounter. In the first place, cavalry was less efficient than infantry against the wild Mamelukes. When twenty thousand of those fierce warriors mounted on the fleet steeds of the desert, came flying down on their mad gallop, nothing but the close and serried ranks of infantry, and the fixed bayonet could arrest their progress. Besides, what was a charge of cavalry against those fleet horsemen, whose onset and retreat were too rapid for the heavy armed French cuirasseurs to return or pursue. Murat grew desperate in such a position, and was seen with Lannes once to tear off his cockade and trample it in anger under his feet. Besides, the taking of pyramids and deserts was not the kind of victory that suited his nature. But at Aboukir, where he was appointed by Napoleon to force the centre of the Turkish lines, he showed what wild work he could make with his cavalry. He rode straight through the Turkish ranks, and drove column after column into the sea; and in one of his fierce charges dashed into the camp of Mustapha Pacha, and reining up his magnificent steed beside him, made him risoner with his own hands. His rilliant achievements in this battle fixed him forever in the affections of Napoleon, who soon after, made him one of the few who were to return with him to France. During that long and anxious voyage Murat was by his side, and when the vessel in which they sailed, was forced by adverse winds into the port of Ajac

cio, he visited with the bold Corsican the scenes of his childhood. In the revolution of the 18th Brumaire, which placed Bonaparte in supreme power, Joachim took a conspicuous part, and did perhaps more than any other single general for the usurper. In that crisis of Napoleon's life, when he stalked into the Council of the Five Hundred, already thrown into tumultuous excitement by the news of his usurpation, and the startling cry, “down with the tyrant” met his ear, Murat was by to save him. “ Charge bayonets,” said he to the battalion of soldiers under him, and with firm step and leveled pieces they marched into the hall and dissolved the Assembly. Soon after, being at the time thirty-three years of age, he married Caroline Bonaparte, the youngest sister of the Emperor, then in all the bloom and freshness of eighteen. The handsome person and dashing manners of Murat leased her more than the higher-born Moreau. In a fortnight after his marriage he was on his way with his brotherin-law to cross the San Bernard into Italy. At Marengo he commanded the cavalry, and for his great exploits in this important battle, received from the consular government a magnificent sword. Bonaparte, as Emperor, never ceased lavishing honors on his favorite brotherin-law. He went up from General of Brigade to General of Division, then to Commander of the National Guard, Marshal, Grand Admiral, Prince of the Empire, Grand Eagle of the Legion of Honor, Grand Duke of Berg and Cleves, and was finally made King of Naples. “The Abbé Murat” had gone through some changes since he was studying theology at Toulouse. It is not our design to enter in detail into the history of Murat, but having given the steps by which he ascended to greatness, speak only of those acts which illustrate the great points of his character. In the campaign of 1805—at Wertingen, Vienna and Austerlitz, and other fields of fame—in 1806–7 at Jena, Lubeck, Eylau and Friedland—in 1808 overthrowing the Spanish Bourbons, and o the crown in Napoleon's hands, e is the same victorious leader and intrepid man. His three distinguishing characteristics were, high chivalric courage, great skill as a general, and almost unparalleled coolness in the hour of extremest peril. Added to all this, Nature had

lavished her gifts on the mere physical man. His form was tall and finely Fol. tread like that of a

ing—his face striking and noble, while his piercing glance few men could bear. This was Murat on foot, but place him on horseback, and he was still more imposing. He never mounted a steed that

was not worthy of the boldest knight of.

ancient days, and his incomparable seat made both horse and rider an object of universal admiration. The English invariably condemn the theatrical costume he always wore, as an evidence of folly, but we think it is all in keeping with his character. He was not a man of deep thought and compact mind, but he was an oriental in his tastes, and loved everything gorgeous and | ". He usually wore a rich Polish dress, with the collar ornamented with gold brocade, ample pantaloons, scarlet or purple, and embroidered with gold; boots of yellow leather, while a straight diamond-hilted sword, like that worn by the ancient Romans, hanging from a girdle of gold brocade, completed his dashing exterior. He wore heavy black whiskers, long black locks which streamed over his shoulders and contrasted singularly with his fiery blue eye. On his head he wore a three-cornered chapeau, from which rose a magnificent white plume that bent under the profusion of ostrich feathers, while beside it and in the same gold band, towered away a splendid heron plume. Over all this brilliant costume, he wore in cold weather a pelisse of green velvet, lined and fringed with the costliest sables. Neither did he forget his horse in this gorgeous appareling, but had him adorned with the rich Turkish stirru

and bridle, and almost covered wit

azure-colored trappings. Had all this finery been piled on a diminutive man, or an indifferent rider like Bonaparte, it would have appeared ridiculous; but on the splendid charger and still more majestic figure and bearing of Murat, it seemed all in place and keeping. This dazzling exterior always made him a mark for the enemy's bullets in battle, and it is a wonder that so conspicuous an object was never shot down. Perhaps there never was a greater contrast between two men, than between Murat and Napoleon, when they rode together along the lines previous to battle. The square figure, plain three-cornered hat, "... breeches, brown surtout, and careless seat of Napoleon, were the direct counterpart of the

magnificent display and imposing attitude of his chivalric brother-in-law. To see Murat decked out in this extravagant costume at a review, might create a smile, but whoever once saw that gailycaparisoned steed with its commanding rider in the front rank of battle, plunging like a thunderbolt through the broken ranks, or watched the progress of that towering white plume, as floating high over the tens of thousands that struggled behind it—a constant mark to the cannon balls that whistled like hail-stones around it—never felt like smiling again at Murat. Especially would he forget those gilded trappings when he saw him return from a charge, with his diamondhilted sword dripping with blood, his gay uniform riddled with balls and singed and blackened with powder, while his stron war-horse was streaked with foam an blood, and reeking with sweat. That white plume was the banner to the host he led, and while it continued fluttering over the field of the slain, hope was never relinquished. Many a time has Napoleon seen it glancing like a beam of light to the charge, and watched its progress like the star of his destiny, as it struggled for awhile in the hottest of the fight, and then smiled in joy as he beheld it burst through the thick ranks of infantry, scattering them from his path like chaff before the wind. We said the three great distinguishing traits of Murat were high chivalric courage, great skill as a general, and wonderful coolness in the hour of danger. Napoleon once said, that in battle he was probably the bravest man in the world. There was something more than mere success to him in a battle. He invested it with a sort of glory in itself—threw an air of romance about it all, and fought frequently, we believe, almost in an imaginary world. The device on his sword, so like the knights of old—his very costume copied from those warriors, who lived in more chivalric days, and his heroic manner and bearing, as he led his troops into battle, prove him to be wholly unlike all other generals of that time. In his person at least, he restored the days of knighthood. He himself unconsciously lets out this peculiarity, in speaking of his battle on Mount Tabor with the

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