NAPOLEON'S FAREWELL.

of her story,

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

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!

1

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 thenThe violet still grows in the depth of thy vallies;

Though withered, thy tears will unfold it again.

Yet, yet, I may baffle the hosts that surround us,

And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voiceThere are links which must break in the chain that has

bound us,

Then turn thee and call on the chief of thy choice!

Byron.

ON THE DEATH OF

THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE.

Hark! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds,
A long low distant murmur of dread sound,
Such as arises wben a nation bleeds
With some deep and immedicable wound;
Through storm and darkness yawns the rending ground,
The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief
Seems royal still, though with her head discrowned,

And pale, but lovely with maternal grief
She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief.

Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou ?
Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead ?
Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low
Some less majestic, less beloved head?

In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled,
The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy,
Death hushed that

pang

for ever : with thee fled The present happiness, and promised joy Which filled the imperial isles so full it seemed to cloy.

Peasants bring forth in safety.---Can it be,
O thou that wert so happy, so adored !
Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee,
And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard
Her many griefs for one ; for she had poured
Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head
Beheld her Iris.—Thou, too, lonely lord,

And desolate consort_vainly wert thou wed!
The husband of a year! the father of the dead !

Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made;
Thy bridal's fruit is ashes : in the dust
The fair-haired daughter of the isles is laid,
The love of millions ! How we did entrust
Futurity to her! and, though it must
Darken above our bones, yet fondly deemed
Our children should obey her child, and blessed

Her, and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seemed Like stars to shepherd's eyes ; 'twas but a meteor beamed.

Byron.

THE PARADOX.

How strange is the course that a Christian must steer ?

How perplexed is the path he must tread ? The hope of his happiness rises from fear,

And his life he receives from the dead.

His fairest pretensions must wholly be waved,

And his best resolutions be crost;
Nor can he expect to be perfectly saved,

Till he finds himself utterly lost.

When all this is done, and his heart is assured

Of the total remission of sins; When his pardon is signed, and his peace is procured, From that moment his conflict begins.

Hart.

BASHFULNESS.

I pity bashful men, who feel the pain
Of fancied scorn and undeserved disdain,

And bear the marks upon a blushing face
Of needless shame, and self-imposed disgrace.
Our sensibilities are so acute,
The fear of being silent makes us mute.
We sometimes think we could a speech produce
Much to the purpose, if our tongues were loose ;
But being tried, it dies upon the lip,
Faint as a chicken's note that has the pip:
Our wasted oil upprofitably burns,
Like hidden lamps in old sepulchral urns.
Few Frenchmen of this evil have complained;
It seems as if we Britons were ordained,
By way of wholesome gurb upon our pride,
To fear each other, fearing none beside.
The cause perhaps inquiry may descry,
Self-searching with an introverted eye,
Concealed within an unsuspected part,
The vainest corner of our own vain heart :
For ever aiming at the world's esteem,
Our self-importance ruins its own scheme;
In other eyes our talents rarely shown,
Become at length so splendid in our own,
We dare not risk them into public view,
Lest they miscarry of what seems their due.

Cowper.