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Napoleon's Midnight Review.

219

Below the mud of Nile,

And 'neath Arabian sand;
Their burial place they quit,

And soon to arms they stand.
And at midnight, from his grave,

The trumpeter arose;
And mounted on his horse,

A loud shrill blast he blows.
On aëry coursers then,

The cavalry are seen,
Old squadrons erst renowned,

Gory and gashed, I ween.
Beneath the casque their blanchèd skulls

Smile grim, and proud their air,
As in their iron hands,

Their long sharp swords they bear.
And at midnight from his tomb

The chief awoke, and rose ;
And followed by his staff,

With slow steps on he goes.
A little hat he wears,

A coat quite plain has he,
A little sword for arms

At his left side hangs free.
O'er the vast plain, the moon

A solemn lustre threw;
The man with the little hat

The troops goes to review.
The ranks present their arms,

Deep roll the drums the while;
Recovering then-the troops

Before the chief defile.
Marshals and generals round

In circle formed appear :
The chief to the first a word

Then whispers in his ear.
The word goes down the ranks,

Resounds along the Seine;
That word they give, is France,

The answer—Saint Hélène :
'Tis there, at midnight hour,

The Grand Review, they say,
Is by dead Cæsar held,

In the Champs Elysées.

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54.—THE LAST MAN

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

[See page 195.] All worldly shapes shall melt in gloon

The sun himself must die,
Before this mortal shall assume

Its immortality!
I saw a vision in my sleep
That gave my spirit strength to sweep

Adown the gulf of Time!
I saw the last of human mould,
That shall creation's death behold,

As Adam saw her prime !
The sun's cye had a sickly glare,

The earth with age was wan,
The skeletons of nations were

Around that lonely man!
Some had expired in fight,—the brands
Still rusted in their bony hands;

In plague and famine some !
Earth's.cities had no sound nor tread;
And ships were drifting with the dead

To shores where all was dumb!
Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,

With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sere leaves from the wood

As if a storm pass'd bySaying, We are twins in death, proud sun, Thy face is cold, thy race is run, mercy

bids thee go; For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears,

That shall no longer flow. What though beneath thee man put forth

His pomp, his pride, his skill;
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,

The vassals of his will ;-
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrowned king of day:

For all those trophied arts
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Heal'd not a passion or a pang

Entail'd on human hearts. Go, let oblivion's curtain fall

Upon the stage of men,

"Tis

The Sword Song.

221

Nor with thy rising beams recall

Life's tragedy again.
Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh upon the rack

Of pain anew to writhe ;
Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr’d,
Or mown in battle by the sword,
Like
grass

beneath the scythe.
Even I am weary

in
yon

skies
To watch thy fading fire;
Test of all sumless agonies,

Behold not me expire.
My lips that speak thy dirge of death-
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath

To see thou shalt not boast.
The eclipse of nature spreads my pall,-
The majesty of darkness shall

Receive my parting ghost !
This spirit shall return to Him

Who gave its heavenly spark;
Yet think not, sun, it shall be dim,

When thou thyself art dark!
No! it shall live again and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,

By Him recall’d to breath,
Who captive led captivity,
Who robb’d the grave of victory, -

And took the sting from death!
Go, sun, whilst mercy holds me up

On nature's awful waste,
To drink this last and bitter cup

Of grief that man shall taste-
Go, tell the night that hides thy face,
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race,

On earth's sepulchral clod,
The darkening universe defy
To quench his immortality,

Or shake his trust in God!

55.—THE SWORD SONG.

THEODORE KÖRNER.

[Theodore Körner, the eminent German poet, was born at Dresden in 1791. After studying at Leipsic he became secretary to the Court Theatre of Vienna, and commenced as a dramatist. In 1812 he entered the Prussian army and signalized himself equally by his bravery and his martial songs. For his conduct at the battle at Lützen he was promoted, and afterwards, having been

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twice wounded, was made a lieutenant. He was killed in a skirmish with the French at Mecklenburg, August 26th, 1813. His lyrical poems were published after his death under the appropriate title of “ T'he Lyre and the Sword,” and his dramas, poems, and literary remains have since been published in Germany.]

Thou sword upon my belted vest,
What means thy glittering polished crest?
Thou seem'st within my glowing breast

To raise a flame-Hurrah !
“ A horseman brave supports my blade,
The weapon of a freeman made;
For him I shine, for him I'll wade

Through blood and death—Hurrah !”
Yes, my good sword, behold me free,
I fond affection bear to thee,
As though thou wert betrothed to me,

My earliest bride-Hurrah!
“ Soldier of Fortune, I am thine,
For thee alone my blade shall shine-
When, Soldier, shall I call thee mine,

Joined in the field-Hurrah !"
Soon as our bridal morn shall rise,
While the shrill trumpet's summons flies,
And the red cannon rends the skies,

We'll join our hands—Hurrah!
“O sacred union !—haste away,
Ye tardy moments of delay-
I long, my bridegroom, for the day

To be thy bride-Hurrah!”
Why cling'st thou in the scabbard-why?
Thou iron fair of destiny,
So wild—so fond of battle-cry,

Why cling'st thou so P_Hurrah!
“I hold myself in dread reserve,
Fierce-fond in battle-fields to serve,
The cause of freedom to preserve-

For this I wait-Hurrah!”
Rest—still in narrow compass rest-
Ere a long space thou shalt be blest,
Within

my
ardent

grasp comprest-
Ready for fight-Hurrah!
“Oh let me not too long await-
I love the gory field of fate,
Where death's rich roses grow elate

In bloody bloom-Hurrah!”

Childe Harold's Farewell.

223

66

Come forth! quick from thy scabbard fly,
Thou pleasure of the Soldier's

eyeNow to the scene of slaughter hie,

Thy native home-Hurrah !
O glorious thus in nuptial tie,
To join beneath heaven's canopy-
Bright as a sunbeam of the sky,
Glitters your

bride-Hurrah !"
Then out, thou messenger of strife,
Thou German soldier's plighted wife
Who feels not renovated life

When clasping thee P-Hurrah !
When in thy scabbard on my side,
I seldom glanced on thee, my bride;
Now Heaven has bid us ne'er divide,

For ever joined-Hurrah !
Thee glowing to my lips I'll press,
And all my ardent vows confess-
O cursed be he, without redress,

Who thee forsakes !- Hurrah !
Let joy sit in thy polished eyes,
While radiant sparkles flashing rise-
Our marriage-day dawns in the skies,

My Bride of Steel-Hurrah !

66

the sea

56.-CHILDE HAROLD'S FAREWELL.

LORD BYRON.

[See page 205.]
ADIEU, adieu ! my native shore

Fades o'er the waters blue;
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,

And shrieks the wild sea-mew.
Yon sun that sets

upon We follow in his flight; Farewell awhile to him and thee,

My native land-good night!
A few short hours and he will rise

To give the morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies,

But not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall,

Its hearth is desolate;
Wild weedsare gathering on the wall ;

My dog howls at the gate.

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