THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON.

FAST and low his breast was heaving,

Pain-disturbed, he scarcely slept;

Earth the warrior's soul was leaving,

And we bow'd our heads and wept;

For that mighty soul was dying;

Half-awake, half-lost in trance,

To our questions naught replying -

Dreaming only of his France.

Visions of his life swept o'er him,

Of that glorious, strange career,

When the conquered kings before him

Suppliant knelt, and quailed in fear;

When all Europe crouch'd and trembled

At his word of stern command, -

Little now his fate resembled

That which once was madly grand.

Once again Marengo's meadows,

Army-trod, before him lay,

Once again, at twilight's shadows,

Victory came with brave Desaix;

Once again, the crown of iron

On his martial brow was placed,

Once again, like angry lion,

He the arms of Europe faced.

And across his features solemn

Something like a smile now flits,

And the Old Guard's serried column

Wins again at Austerlitz.

Now the smile to frown is changing,

And we hear a smothered sigh

As his restless mind is ranging

O'er the wreck of Muscovy.

Now we catch a murmured sobbing

From a broken heart, and know

That the chief again is throbbing

At that scene in Fontainebleau;

And the pulse grows ever dimmer

And the heart-beats hardly swell.

In his eye the cold tears glimmer

As he bids fair France farewell!

And without, the gales, befuried

Howl and moan, and wildly crash,

And within the lightings lurid

Through the curtained windows flash;

Now the chieftain's blood flows quicker,

And he mutters, "Tete d'armee"

Now his feeble forces flicker

And his soul has passed away!