There be sure was MURAT charging!
There he ne'er shall charge again!

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!

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.

ODE TO THE ISLAND OF ST HELENA.

PEACE to thee, isle of the ocean!

Hail to thy breezes and billows!

Where, rolling its tides, in perpetual devotion, The white wave its plumy surf pillows! Rich shall the chaplet be history shall weave thee! Whose undying verdure shall bloom on thy brow, When nations that now in obscurity leave thee, To the wand of oblivion alternately bow! Unchanged in thy glory—unstain'd in thy fameThe homage of ages shall hallow thy name.

Hail to the chief who reposes

On thee the rich weight of his glory!
When fill'd to its limit, life's chronicle closes,
His deeds shall be sacred in story!

His prowess shall rank with the first of all ages,
And monarchs hereafter shall bow to his worth-
The songs of the poets-the lessons of sages-
Shall hold him the wonder and grace of the earth.
The meteors of history before thee shall fall,
Eclipsed by thy splendour, thou meteor of Gaul.

Hygeian breezes shall fan thee,

Island of glory resplendent!

Pilgrims from nations far distant shall man thee,
Tribes, as thy waves, independent!

On thy far-gleaming strand the wanderer shall stay him,
To snatch a brief glance at a spot so renown'd-
Each turf and each stone, and each cliff shall delay him,
Where the step of thy exile hath hallow'd thy ground!
From him shalt thou borrow a lustre divine,
The wane of his sun was the rising of thine.

Whose were the hands that enslaved him?
Hands which had weakly withstood him—
Nations which, while they had oftentimes braved him,
Never till now had subdued him!

Monarchs, who oft to his clemency stooping,

Received back their crowns from the plunder of warThe vanquisher vanquish'd, the eagle now drooping, Would quench with their sternness the ray of his star! But clothed in new splendour the glory appears, And rules the ascendant, the planet of years.

Pure be the health of thy mountains!

Rich be the green of thy pastures!

Limpid and lasting the streams of thy fountains!

Thine annals unstain'd by disasters!

Supreme in the ocean a rich altar swelling

Whose shrine shall be hail'd by the prayers of mankind— Thy rock-beach the rage of the tempest repelling—

The wide-wasting contest of wave and of wind

Aloft on thy battlements long be unfurl'd

The eagle that decks thee, the pride of the world.

Fade shall the lily, now blooming,

Where is the hand which can nurse it?

Nations who rear'd it shall watch its consuming,

Untimely mildews shall curse it.

Then shall the violet that blooms in the vallies

Impart to the gale its reviving perfume, Then, when the spirit of liberty rallies

To chant forth its anthems on tyranny's tomb, Wide Europe shall fear lest thy star should break forth, Eclipsing the pestilent orbs of the north.

TO NAPOLEON.

(FROM THE FRENCH.)

« 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."

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?

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.'

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 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?

My chief, my king, my friend, adieu!
Never did I droop before;

Never to my sovereign sue,

As his foes I now implore:

« 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.»- -A private Letter from Brussels.