Till, goaded by ambition's sting,
The Hero sunk into the King?
Then he fell: so perish all,

Who would men by man enthral !

III.

And thou, too, of the snow-white plume! (1)
Whose realm refused thee ev'n a tomb; (2)
Better hadst 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 shiver'd 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 roll'd in air, the warrior's guide;
Through the smoke-created night
Of the black and sulphurous fight,

(1) ["Poor dear Murat, what an end! His white plume used to be a rallying point in battle, like Henry the Fourth's. He refused a confessor and a bandage; so would neither suffer his soul nor body to be bandaged." -B. Letters.]

(2) Murat's remains are said to have been torn from the grave and burnt.

The soldier raised his seeking eye
To catch that crest's ascendency,—
And, as it onward rolling rose,
So moved his heart upon our foes.
There, where death's brief pang was quickest,
And the battle's wreck lay thickest,
Strew'd beneath the advancing banner
Of the eagle's burning crest
(There with thunder-clouds to fan her,
Who could then her wing arrest
Victory beaming from her breast?)
While the broken line enlarging
Fell, or fled along the plain;
There be sure was Murat charging!
There he ne'er shall charge again!

IV.

O'er glories gone the invaders march,
Weeps Triumph o'er each levell'd arch
But let Freedom rejoice,

With her heart in her voice;

But, her hand on her sword,

Doubly shall she be adored;

France hath twice too well been taught
The "moral lesson" dearly bought-
Her safety sits not on a throne,

With Capet or Napoleon!

But in equal rights and laws,

Hearts and hands in one great cause
Freedom, such as God hath given
Unto all beneath his heaven,

With their breath, and from their birth,

Though Guilt would sweep it from the earth;
With a fierce and lavish hand

Scattering nations' wealth like sand;

Pouring nations' blood like water,
In imperial seas of slaughter!

V.

But the heart and the mind,
And the voice of mankind,
Shall arise in communion

And who shall resist that proud union?
The time is past when swords subdued
Man may die- the soul's renew'd:
Even in this low world of care
Freedom ne'er shall want an heir;
Millions breathe but to inherit
Her for ever bounding spirit -
When once more her hosts assemble,
Tyrants shall believe and tremble
Smile they at this idle threat?
Crimson tears will follow yet. (1)

(1) [“ Talking of politics, as Caleb Quotem says, pray look at the conclusion of my 'Ode on Waterloo,' written in the year 1815, and, comparing it with the Duke de Berri's catastrophe in 1820, tell me if I have not as good a right to the character of Vates,' in both senses of the word, as Fitzgerald and Coleridge?

'Crimson tears will follow yet;' and have they not?"—B. Letters, 1820.]

T S

FROM THE FRENCH.

["MUST THOU GO, MY GLORIOUS CHIEF?"](')

I.

MUST thou go, my glorious Chief,
Sever'd 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?

II.

Idol of the soldier's soul!

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

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.(2)

(1) " All wept, but particularly Savary, and a Polish officer who had been exalted from the ranks by Buonaparte. 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."

(2) "At Waterloo, one man was seen, whose left arm was shattered by a cannon ball, to wrench it off with the other, and throwing it up in the air, exclaimed to his comrades, Vive l'Empereur, jusqu'à la mort!' There were many other instances of the like: this you may, however, depend on as true."- Private Letter from Brussels.

III.

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.

IV.

Would the sycophants of him
Now so deaf to duty's prayer,
Were his borrow'd 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?

V.

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.