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WRITTEN ON HEARING THE NEWS OF THE
DEATH OF NAPOLEON.
WHAT! alive and so bold, oh earth?
Art thou not overbold?
What ! leapest thou forth as of old
How ! is not thy quick heart cold?
What spark is alive on thy hearth ?
And livest thou still, Mother Earth ?
“Who has known me of old,” replied Earth,
“Or who has my story told?
And the lightning of scorn laughed forth
sung, "to my bosom I fold
“Still alive and still bold,” shouted Earth,
“I grow bolder and still more bold.
The dead fill me ten thousand fold
“ Aye, alive and still bold,” muttered Earth,
“Napoleon's fierce spirit rolled,
In terror and blood and gold, A torrent of ruin to death from his birth. Leave the millions who follow to mould The metal before it be cold ; And weave into his shame, which like the dead Shrouds me, the hopes that from his glory fled."
ORPEAN bours, the year is dead,
Come and sizh, come and weep !
For the year is but asleep.
As an earthquake rocks a corse
In its coffin in the clay,
Rocks the death-cold year to-day;
As the wild air stirs and sways
The tree-swung cradle of a child, So the breath of these rude days
Rocks the year :- - be calm and mild, Trembling hours, she will arise With new love within her eyes.
January grey is here,
Like a sexton by her grave ;
March with grief doth howl and rave.
SWIFTLY walk over the western wave,
Spirit of Night!
Swift be thy flight!
Wrap thy form in a mantle grey,
Come, long sought !