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’Tis as the war-flag closely furl'd
When reason reigns within ;
Oh, 'tis the world, the bitter world
That makes ambition sin.

Ah, see the brilliant smile is dead!
The hand is dropp'd, the joy is fled!
Some thought has indistinctly shown,
As in a misty glass,

Where all the cares that wait a throne,
And youthful hopes and virtues flown,
In dim confusion pass ;

With comrades slain, a fearful band,
Brothers who roam a foreign strand,
A fond forsaken wife,

A bleeding world, a suffering land,
His sorrows and his life.

Well may he sigh! but that convulsion
A deeper anguish caused;

Almost it seemed in dread revulsion
That Nature's functions paused.

His brow was wet, his hair upraised,
His hands were clench'd, his look was

mazed,

The empress trembled as she gazed.

At Palm's dread spectre doth he quake?

Comes D'Enghien thus his soul to shake?
No; to the consciences of kings
Flattery her deadly opiate brings;
Though doom'd untried, by impious men,
Yet murder shall be justice then.

In all his pomp of power array'd,
The monarch deems himself betray'd;
Hemm'd in by guards and armed bands,
Chain'd in the senate-hall he stands;

Napoleon's Dream.

J41

All whom he hated, all he loved

Were there, and all his fall approved.
E'en the betrayer's self stood nigh,
With jeering tongue, and scornful eye,
And thrice he strove to strike him dead,
And thrice the grinning traitor fled;
And Frenchmen thrice, with fickle breath,
Shouted, "Napoleon to the death!"
That horror's pass'd: Memory again
Binds Fancy in her spell-fraught chain.
The vision changed, and changed his look,
Though still his form with chillness shook,
Though still uprose his coal-black hair,
'Twas anguish still-but not despair.
He seem'd through realms of frost to stray
Where endless forests barr'd his way;
Forests of pines, whose snow mass made
In noontide clear a midnight shade.
A sense of solitary care,

Silence and deathlike cold were there.
And still he thought at every step
His jaded steed was forced to leap ;
Something he could not move nor kill,
Some fell obstruction met him still.
At length full in the monarch's way
A Gallic soldier dying lay;
Napoleon stopp'd and strove to cheer;
The warrior's death-groan met his ear,
The warrior's death-glance met his eye,
That groan, that glance he could not fly!
A bitter curse they seem'd to shroud.
He gallop'd on, he shouted loud,-
But still the groan he cannot fly,
But still the glance is in his eye.
"Awake! awake!" and at her touch
The hero started from his couch:

Awhile he stood and shook with dread;
"'Tis but a dream!" at length he said;
"'Tis but a bubble of the brain!"
He said yet fear'd to sleep again.

A Poetical Sketch.

BY MISS LANDON, (L. E. L.)

"I do love

These old remembrances-they are to me
The heart's best intercourse; I love to feel
The griefs, the happiness, the wayward fates
Of those that have been, for these memories
Hallow the spot whereon they linger, and
Waken our kindliest sympathies."

'HE shore was reef'd with rocks, whose rugged sides

THE

Were venturous footing for the fowler's step:

They were shaped out in wild and curious forms,

Above all jagged and broken, but below

The waves had worn the shaggy points away;
For there they rave incessantly. When last
I pass'd along the beach, it was at eve,
A summer's eve, stormy, but beautiful;
I could but look upon the western sky,
The rest was hidden from my view; but there
The day had spent its glory. One rich light
Broke through the shadow of the tempest's wing,
While the black clouds, with gold and purple edged,
Caught every moment warmer hues, until
'Twas all one sparkling arch, and, like a king
In triumph o'er his foes, the Sun-god sought
The blue depths of the sea; the waters yet
Were ruffled with the storm, and the white foam

A Poetical Sketch.

Yet floated on the billows, while the wind
Murmur'd at times like to an angry child,
Who sobs even in his slumber. Mid the rocks
That rose stern barriers to the rebel waves,
There was one spot less rugged than the rest;
Some firs had taken root there, and waved o'er
The entrance of a cave, where Grecian bards
Had said some Sea-maid dwelt, and deck'd the place
With ocean treasures, for the walls were bright
With crystal spar-in sooth, it seem'd just form'd
For some fair daughter of the main; at noon
Here she might bind her hair with shells, and wake
Her golden harp. But now a legend's told
Of human love and sorrow-it is call'd
The Cavern of the Pirate's Love :-her fate
Is soon and sadly told: she follow'd one,
A lawless wanderer of the deep, for whom
She left her father's halls. A little while
She might know happiness-it is the heart
That gives the colour to our destiny.

But lovely things are fleeting-blushes, sighs,

143

The hours of youth, smiles, hopes, and minstrel dreams, Spring days and blossoms, music's tones, are all

Most fugitive; and swifter still than these

Will love dissolve into forgetfulness.

She was deserted. For a while this cave
Was her sad refuge; for a while the rocks
Echoed her wild complainings. I can deem
How she would gaze upon the sea, and think
Each passing cloud her lover's bark, till, hope
Sicken'd of its own vanity, and life

Sicken'd with hope, she pass'd and left a tale,
A melancholy tale, just fit to tell

On such an eve as this, when sky and sea
Are sleeping in the mute and mournful calm
Of passion sunk to rest.

The Ship's Return.

BY MISS BENGER.

HOU com'st, fair bark, in gallant pride,

THO

Thy swan-white sails exulting spread; Nor I the graceful triumph chide,

For silent are the tears I shed.

Erewhile, when thou wert distant far,
Wandering on ocean's pathless waste,
I hail'd thee as my pilot star—

By thee my devious course was traced.

To thee, as to a hallow'd shrine,

My sighs, my prayers were all address'd; Thy pride, thy honour seem'd but mine, And in thy safety was my rest.

But now, though trophies deck thy brow,
A mournful wreck alone I see;
For he who warm'd each ardent vow,
No more a welcome asks of me.

He should have lived!-for fortune owed

The kind redress withheld too long,

Whilst he life's dark and dreary road

Had still beguiled with Hope's sweet song.

He should have lived!-in suffering school'd, But ne'er with fancied wrongs oppress'd;

For nature still o'er sorrow ruled,

And peace his guileless soul possess'd.

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