THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 OTTO WAGNER, PHOTO.
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 BY 
 
 SARA GENEVRA CHAFA. 
 
 CAMBRIDGE: 
 
 PRINTED AT THE RIVERSIDE PRESS. 
 1872.
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by 
 
 SARA G. CHAFA, 
 in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
 RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE: 
 
 STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY 
 
 H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE I 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 95 
 
 MY LIFE-BATTLE 97 
 
 MY LAND IDEAL 98 
 
 A LOVER'S RHAPSODIES 100 
 
 LOVE VERSUS GOLD 102 
 
 HEREAFTER 105 
 
 MAXIMILIAN 107 
 
 "LOVE IN A COTTAGE" 109 
 
 VENICE, ITALY. 1866 in 
 
 MEMORY'S HOPE 113 
 
 THE KINGDOM OF LOVE 116 
 
 CHRISTMAS 118 
 
 REACH ME YOUR HAND, DARLING .... 120 
 
 A WOMAN'S WANTS 122 
 
 WE LOVE BUT ONCE 123 
 
 A BALLAD 125 
 
 TO-DAY 127 
 
 THE COUNT ST. JAMES 129 
 
 DARLING 135 
 
 ALICE GARY 137 
 
 WORLD-WEARY 138 
 
 TEMPTATION 140 
 
 MORNING ON THE MOUNTAINS 144 
 
 THE DYING GIRL TO HER MOTHER . . . 145 
 
 RICHMOND ON THE JAMES 148 
 
 LINES WRITTEN AFTER RECEIVING A BOUQUET . 152 
 CHRISTMAS BANQUET SONG. . . . . -153 
 
 LIFE'S DARKNESS 155 
 
 759484
 
 IV CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 MAY, 1864 157 
 
 COSETTE TO MARIUS 158 
 
 THE VOICE OF THE WOOD 160 
 
 LINCOLN'S DEATH 162 
 
 HAPPINESS 165 
 
 THE KNIGHT AND THE MAID 167 
 
 THE LOVER'S MEETING 169 
 
 APOSTROPHE TO MY LYRE 170 
 
 THE BREAKING UP 172 
 
 STORMS . 173 
 
 "KEEP YOUR EYE ON THAT FLAG" . . . . 175 
 
 To A FRIEND 177 
 
 FINALE 179 
 
 MY BEAUTIFUL PAST 182 
 
 "THE OLD, OLD STORY" 184 
 
 MOONLIGHT FANCIES 186 
 
 THE INEVITABLE 190 
 
 THE ROSY WINE CUP 192 
 
 To DICK . . 194 
 
 SONG OF THE WANDERER 195 
 
 THE PAST 197 
 
 OCTOBER 198 
 
 THE VOLUNTEER'S WIFE TO HER HUSBAND . . 200 
 
 BY THE SEA 201 
 
 To A LADY 202 
 
 FRIGHTENED 204 
 
 THE WANDERER'S CHRISTMAS 207 
 
 THE WHEEL OF LIFE . 210
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 " Thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's, 
 One of the few, the immortal names 
 That were not born to die." F. G. HALLECK. 
 
 CANTO THE FIRST. 
 
 ON an isle begirt by ocean, 
 Where the waves in restless motion 
 
 Dash against the shore ; 
 When the people had uprisen, 
 And had sacked this spot Elysian, 
 And each dwelling was a prison, 
 
 Or was dreaded more ; 
 'Mid these scenes of blood and sorrow, 
 Darker growing every morrow, 
 There was born a child whom Fate 
 Had ordained to high estate. 
 Though when first he breathed the air 
 'Round him shone the battle's glare, 
 And he heard such thrilling sound 
 As when swords from scabbards bound, 
 Born 'mid tumult, 'twas to be 
 Raised, afar from Corsica, 
 To a royal destiny.
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 Riot runs o'er sunny France, 
 And on graves the people dance ; 
 Ne'er before saw Heaven a sight 
 Equal that in horror quite. 
 Men seemed demons, and each form 
 Helped to spread the awful storm ; 
 Drunk with blood, they wildly cursed 
 Those who did not do their worst ; 
 And poor France became a hell, 
 And the people graced it well. 
 Lo ! they dare to mock at GOD, 
 For, above each grave-yard sod, 
 There are words of import deep : 
 " Death is an eternal sleep." 
 
 He who sat upon the throne, 
 Listening to his people's groan, 
 Durst not call his life his own, 
 
 For the mass was maddened. 
 Scaffolds raised their gory heads, 
 Graves were then the softest beds 
 
 Which the nobles gladdened. 
 Beauty, wealth, and lofty mien 
 Graced the horrid guillotine. 
 To this scene of wild confusion, 
 From a young life's strange seclusion, 
 
 Came the hero of my song ; 
 Came to this distracted land, 
 Guided by an Unseen Hand, 
 
 To oppose the wrong. 
 Sunny France before him lay
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. '. 
 
 Stained with blood by night and day, 
 And his eagle eye took in 
 All its misery, all its sin, 
 And with mighty grasp of mind 
 Revolutions he combined. 
 Gifts or gold he never sought, 
 With his own o'er-m aster ing thought 
 All his fame himself he wrought. 
 
 Riot rose around the wall 
 
 Of the nation's capitol, 
 
 And the king and nobles found 
 
 People will not all be bound, 
 
 And crushed in the trodden ground. 
 
 High as heaven there rose the shout, 
 
 " Lead the King and Nobles out ! " 
 
 " Blood ! " yes, " blood ! " they fiercely cried, 
 
 And the King and Nobles died. 
 
 Lo ! through the streets of Paris came 
 A hissing thunder-burst of flame, 
 And pavement stones are covered o'er 
 With seething streams of human gore. 
 Guiding all this work of death 
 Stands Napoleon, with hushed breath, 
 Watching with a kindling eye 
 As the mob in terror fly ; 
 For that dreadful fire had mown 
 Heaps on heaps of wretches down, 
 Nothing mortal could oppose 
 Such unlocked for, awful blows.
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 France was now a heaving flood ; 
 Surge on surge broke seas of blood ; 
 Was there one with strength to guide 
 This terrific, human tide ? 
 Yes ! a man stepped from the crowd 
 (He to whom the mob had bowed), 
 And that fearful mass of life 
 Moved in order to the strife. 
 Europe trembles at the scene, 
 For her thrones o'er chasms lean ; 
 But the downtrod of all lands 
 Clinch their pained and shackled hands, 
 And with anxious, prayerful eyes, 
 Lifted toward the darkened skies, 
 Wait the blow which can but be 
 Herald of their liberty. 
 
 As the conqueror's course grew bright, 
 Kings were seized with much affright ; 
 It were difficult to know 
 How to crush so strange a foe ; 
 One toward whom their subjects' eyes 
 Turned with longing and surprise, 
 And before whom enemies 
 Sank as swallowed by the seas. 
 
 Lofty were his plans to save 
 France from a dishonored grave, 
 And the people, crushed so long, 
 Raised a loud, rejoicing song ; 
 That one name, unknown before,
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 Roused the land from shore to shore. 
 " Savior ! Friend ! " they wildly cried ; 
 And the echo has ne'er died ; 
 Bonaparte is loved to-day 
 Almost with idolatry. 
 
 Soon in every home in France 
 Glad lips spoke of his advance ; 
 Yet united nations stood 
 Banded for his country's blood; 
 
 Ready with uplifted hand 
 To crush down " the people's friend," 
 Fearing lest his fame extend, 
 
 And he save his trembling land. 
 
 France was pierced on every side, 
 England mocked the people's pride, 
 Austria did her strength deride, 
 And, ere long, a blood-red tide 
 Lashed her shores both far and wide. 
 Yet amid this clash of arms, 
 
 And the bugle's martial notes, 
 Lo ! love's voice, most soft and sweet, 
 
 O'er Napoleon's spirit floats. 
 To the dream awhile he yields, 
 And forgets fierce battle-fields ; 
 Fairer spots he now doth tread, 
 
 Softened tones beguile his ear, 
 Angels hover overhead, 
 
 At his side is one more dear. 
 'Tis the lovely Josephine
 
 6 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 Who so glorifies the scene, 
 And whose constant tenderness 
 Shall his stormy future bless. 
 With her wifely words of pride 
 
 Thrilling through his inmost soul, 
 Soon he hastes the tide to stem, 
 
 Threatening over France to roll. 
 At her frontiers thousands stood 
 Eager for the nation's blood ; 
 Bayonets flashed where foes without 
 Did to civil traitors shout ; 
 France indeed stood trembling o'er 
 
 Horror, anarchy, and death ; 
 Cannon shook her rocky shore, 
 
 Till the bravest held their breath. 1 
 Yet Napoleon stood up, proud 
 That this darkly gathering cloud 
 Backward by his hand should roll ; 
 
 1 " England with her invincible fleet was hovering around 
 the coast of the Republic, assailing every exposed point, land 
 ing troops upon the French territory, and arming and inspiring 
 the Royalists to civil war. Austria had marched an army of . 
 nearly two hundred thousand men upon the banks of the Rhine, 
 to attack France on the north ; she had called into requisition 
 all her Italian possessions, and, in alliance with the British 
 navy, and the armies of the King of Sardinia, and the fanatic 
 legions of Naples and Sicily, had gathered eighty thousand men 
 upon the Ajpine frontier. It was purely a war of self-defense 
 on the part of the French people. They were contending 
 against the bullets and bayonets of the armies of monarchical 
 Europe assailing them at every point. Napoleon had but 
 thirty thousand men to repel these eighty thousand invaders." 
 J. S. C. ABBOTT.
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 And his clear, far-reaching soul 
 
 Felt, in all this clash of war, 
 
 What he had uprisen for. 
 
 Did he, as historians tell, 
 
 Seek to make a very hell 
 
 Of the earth whereon he trod, 
 
 And poor France, which mocked at God ? 
 
 No ! he sought, did all but pray, 
 
 This red tide of war to stay. 
 
 But the young Republic shook 
 
 With the gathering despots' tread, 
 And the French, with dauntless look, 
 
 Placed Napoleon at their head, 
 And with bosoms beating high 
 
 With a superhuman love, 
 Vowed for France to stand and die, 
 
 While one eagle perched above 
 One stout form, with strength to ride 
 By their chosen chieftain's side. 
 Cottage hearth, and palace hall 
 Quickly answered Freedom's call ; 
 From each home a warrior sprung, 
 
 And with hurrying steps sped on 
 To the sound of rolling drum 
 
 Sped from faces pale and wan ; 
 Tearful maidens, white-browed wives, 
 Gave France thirty thousand lives ; 
 Gave them with a lofty pride, 
 Sent them bravely from each side ; 
 Every eye gleamed with fierce fire, 
 
 Every foot with gladness sped,
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 Every brow grew dark with ire 
 When their chief, whom they adored, 
 Pointed to the gathering horde, 
 And in words like sword-thrusts, said, 
 " We must fight, or France is dead ! " 
 
 SONG OF THE FRENCH SOLDIERS. 
 
 Brothers ! Frenchmen ! haste to battle, 
 
 For the foe has reached the border ; 
 Yonder rides our gallant chieftain, 
 
 Marshaling the ranks in order. 
 Signal fires burn on the hill-tops. 
 
 Squadrons tramp adown the valley ; 
 Forward, Frenchmen ! arm, and forward ! 
 
 'Tis Napoleon bids you rally. 
 
 England's fleets distress our harbors, 
 
 Northern Europe comes to greet her ; 
 Where 's the foe a Frenchman feareth ? 
 
 Injured Frenchmen ! rise to meet her ! 
 Honor to " the little Corporal ! " 
 
 Where he leads what heart will falter ? 
 Vive la France ! march forward, comrades ! 
 
 And we'll die upon her altar. 
 
 Loyally did France uprise 
 
 To repel her enemies ; 
 
 Rose and followed this one man,
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 Whose career had just began. 
 Swords and battlements seemed rife 
 With a living, moving life ; 
 E'en the cannon seemed to say, 
 France ne'er yields to despot sway. 
 Horse and foot, a flying mass, 
 Onward toward the frontiers pass. 
 
 Naught could stand before his wrath, 
 Blood and conquest marked his path, 
 And unto the conqueror proud 
 Austria's Emperor humbly bowed. 
 For his army swiftly fell, 
 Danger hemmed the capitol, 
 Bands of the victorious foe 
 Thirsted for his overthrow, 
 And to save poor Austria 
 
 From a further sacrifice, 
 He must now accept of peace 
 
 From a foe he dared despise. 
 
 France was victor ! joy-bells rung, 
 And one name was on each tongue. 
 Widows, blind with scalding tears, 
 Listened to the crashing cheers, 
 And then turned with mournful pride 
 To the rocking cradle's side. 
 Maidens decked their brows of snow 
 With the cypress wreath of woe, 
 Then turned with a flush of pride to see 
 The returning " Army of Italy."
 
 IO NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 Yet within the nation's halls, 
 
 There were some, historians tell us, 
 
 Who denounced Napoleon's fame, 
 Of "the little Corporal" jealous; 1 
 
 And, when peace had come to bless 
 
 France with wealth and happiness, 
 
 They did proffer and portray, 
 
 Grander conquests far away. 
 
 " Seek you Egypt's shores," said they, 
 
 "And establish in the land 
 
 Empires worthy of command. 
 
 Oriental legions wait 
 
 For the favored one of Fate. 
 
 Hasten, there, and there extend 
 
 Thy glory as ' the people's friend.' 
 
 Success magnificent shall be 
 
 Thy country's, thine, across the sea." 
 
 Soon the soldiers, tried and true, 
 
 With Napoleon bade adieu 
 
 To the shores of bonny France, 
 
 With a longing, onward glance. 
 
 Peals of acclamations rung 
 
 While the fleet in moorings swung ; 
 
 And when over ocean blue 
 
 Sail nor mast doth meet the view, 
 
 1 "The Directory were made exceedingly uneasy by ominous 
 expressions in the streets, ' We will drive away these lawyers 
 and make the little Corporal king.' These cries wonderfully 
 accelerated the zeal of the Directory in sending Napoleon to 
 Egypt ; and most devoutly did they hope that from that distant 
 land he would never return." J. S. C. ABBOTT.
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. II 
 
 Countless bosoms, as one heart, 
 Beat with love for Bonaparte. 
 
 Now among the nations France 
 Stood as one awoke from trance ; 
 Industry began to stir, 
 And a ceaseless buzz and whirr, 
 Told that peaceful life again 
 Once more filled the smiling plain. 
 
 Over ocean's heaving tide 
 Gallantly those good ships ride, 
 Bearing to Egyptian sands 
 Bold, adventurous, eager bands, 
 Bands who followed, loved, and wrought 
 For this man of giant thought. 
 Egypt's shores at length are seen 
 Waves and firmament between ; 
 For beneath the blazing sun 
 Waves and sky appear as one. 
 Naught but bleak and burning sands 
 Greets the army as it lands, 
 Save when scattering Arabs scour 
 O'er the desert at 'mid hour, 
 And with strange, unearthly cry, 
 Wheel beneath the burning sky, 
 As before the startled eye 
 Bayonets flash, and banners fly. 
 Music grand and martial song, 
 O'er the desert roll along,
 
 12 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE, 
 
 And the well-trained soldiers move 
 'Neath the eye of him they love. 
 
 In a lone Egyptian bay 
 Quietly the French fleet lay, 
 Manned with spirits, firm and brave, 
 Proud to fill a soldier's grave, 
 While their dauntless comrades face 
 Danger in the desert place. 
 
 England, with a jealous eye, 
 
 Watched the rising star of France, 
 And with dread, lest light should spread, 
 
 Scanned with fear this bold advance. 
 Soon her ships, unnumbered, ride 
 On the great sea's swelling tide, 
 Seeking for the fleet which lay 
 Moored within that Eastern bay. 
 All unknowing of the storm 
 French battalions march and form ; 
 Over deserts parched with heat 
 Tread the weary soldiers' feet, 
 While beside, with sweatless brow, 
 
 Watching them with loving eye, 
 Toils Napoleon through the sand, 
 
 Blessed by those who, falling, die. 
 Many a corpse with ghastly look 
 Marked the course the army took, 
 For the simoon's burning breath 
 Swiftly did the work of death ;
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPAR TE. 1 3 
 
 Waves and winds, and sun and thirst, 
 Seemed as bent to do their worst ; 
 But despite them all, at last, 
 Is the parching desert passed, 
 And beneath the brazen sky 
 Form the French triumphantly. 
 
 BATTLE OF THE PYRAMIDS. 
 
 The granite obelisks looked down one day 
 
 Upon a sight to be remembered yet, 
 The marshaling for a terrible affray, 
 
 Where two strong hosts in mortal combat met. 
 The sunlight glared upon the burning sand, 
 
 Upon unnumbered warriors, fierce and proud, 
 On jet black steeds, and on a silent band 
 
 Who waited sternly for the battle cloud. 
 
 Strong, dense, and furious was the pagan host ; 
 
 Armed, mounted, dark, a fearful sight to see ; 
 A common foe could only hope, at most, 
 
 For graves, for few had thought of victory. 
 In solid squares the French troops quickly form ; 
 
 They never were defeated, nor must be ; 
 Napoleon is their god : he fears no storm, 
 
 And this his motto, Die, but never flee ! 
 
 Their squares are firm, their bristling bayonets 
 
 bright, 
 And thus they wait those ranks of cavalry
 
 14 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 Which, moving now, a most terrific sight, 
 Sweep o'er the sand with awful majesty. 
 
 Napoleon shouts, " Remember, men, to-day, 
 That ages from those Pyramids look down ! " 
 
 That was enough, and naught of earth could stay 
 The tide which crowned their arms with grand 
 renown. 
 
 The Turks came on to meet a wall of steel, 
 
 And squares unshaken as an ocean rock ; 
 They plunge, they rear, some fall ; at last they 
 reel 
 
 And stagger back before the mighty shock. 
 Again they charge ; again the fearless foe 
 
 Hurl back the bleeding mass that yet remain, 
 Along the sand the dead are lying low, 
 
 And under foot the wounded shriek with pain. 
 
 But useless all ; like ocean's dashing waves 
 
 Those horsemen plunge, and reel, and plunge 
 
 again ; 
 They only gain, spite all their efforts, graves, 
 
 And blood which flows like equinoctial rain. 
 O, valiant French ! the ages well rnay tell 
 
 Thy deeds, where Pyramids were looking down ; 
 Ye fought so bravely, and so bravely fell, 
 
 Historic pens must e'er accord renown. 
 
 The pagan host, which proudly sought the fray, 
 Is crushed and scattered, broken, bleeding, lost ; 
 
 The French have won, have glorified the day ; 
 And yet, alas ! at what a fearful cost.
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 15 
 
 They naught withheld, and naught did grudge to 
 
 give, 
 
 To prove their faith in him, their chosen Chief: 
 The Battle of the Pyramids will live 
 
 So long as winds shall wave one laurel leaf- 
 In the Pasha's royal hall 
 
 Sat a man of iron thought, 
 And for Superstition's fall 
 
 Planned and wrought, planned and wrought, 
 With his concentrated might 
 Crushing wrong, upraising right, 
 Till the rude Arab and Turk 
 Gladly bowed before his work, 
 And Napoleon's dreaded name 
 Soon a sound of love became. 
 Not a spoiler's hand was felt 
 Where a heathen goddess knelt; 
 Roving Mameluke was still 
 Free to worship at his will, 
 And the prosperous country lay 
 Smiling 'neath Napoleon's sway, 
 While poor France grew weak again 
 For the want of this one man. 
 
 Anchored in a sunny bay, 
 
 On one memorable day, 
 
 Rode the fleet which bore the man 
 
 All the nations turned to scan. 
 
 Brave old tars, with hearts of will, 
 
 Every vessel man and fill :
 
 1 6 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 But a proud, determined foe 
 Soon will sink them all below ; 
 Nelson, lord upon the sea, 
 Has decreed that this shall be. 
 
 BATTLE OF THE NILE. 
 
 Down o'er the waste of waters, 
 Night settled dun and drear, 
 
 And the booming of the cannon 
 Told the British fleet was near. 
 
 Each Frenchman knew what danger, 
 And what awful tides of woe 
 
 Then threatened every vessel 
 
 With the sea-weed shrouds below. 
 
 But not one firm lip quivered, 
 Nor flashed one eye less bright ; 
 
 They had faced grim Death too often, 
 And were eager for the fight. 
 
 The foe are stanch and ready, 
 And with hot and lurid breath, 
 
 They form, and hasten forward 
 To the .Carnival of Death. 
 
 Lo, a flash ! A sound terrific 
 O'er the gloomy water glides, 
 
 And answering flames burst swiftly 
 From the French fleet's reeling sides.
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. I? 
 
 The air is filled with thunder, 
 
 With blood the water red, 
 There are gunners powder-blackened, 
 
 There ar.e piles of blackened dead. 
 
 There 's a glorious old Admiral, 
 
 On the Orient's burning deck, 
 And with blood and flame surrounded 
 
 He is gazing o'er the wreck. 
 'Till lo ! a crash terrific, 
 
 Like Heaven's grand reveille, 
 Commander, crew, ships, vanish, 
 
 And " Britannia rules the sea." 
 
 Evil news will travel fast, 
 
 And when this Napoleon heard, 
 How the battle had been lost, 
 Scarcely uttered he a word. 
 Just a moment o'er his face 
 There were signs of anxiousness ; 
 Just a moment ; then the shock 
 Passed away, and like a rock 
 Stood the hero, calm and true, 
 Quick to plan, and strong to do. 
 
 Form and forward ! over the land 
 Rapidly spreads that brief command ; 
 And eager bands march on and form 
 To breast the gathering eastern storm
 
 1 8 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 From serried ranks, from compact square, 
 
 Bright blades flash in the heated air ; 
 
 And with devotion such as ne'er 
 
 Before 'shrined monarch, priest, or seer, 
 
 They gather round, a mass of life, 
 
 Their chief to follow to the strife. 
 
 Ah ! woe to foe and joy to friend, 
 
 For those proud ranks nor shake nor bend 
 
 And backward reeled Arab and Turk 
 
 Before Napoleon's giant work. 
 
 The nations wondered ; England ground 
 
 Her teeth in rage, and at one bound 
 
 Jumped " constitution " in advance, 
 
 And swore eternal hate to France. 
 
 Then it was the northern sky 
 
 Glowed again with war's red flame, 
 And grim Revolution cried, 
 
 Cried aloud Napoleon's name. 
 O'er the land it seemed to roll, 
 Thrilling each heroic soul, 
 Bowing those who sat in state 
 Like a thunderbolt of fate. 
 Nothing now that cry could still, 
 Which, from valley, plain, and hill, 
 
 Rose and crossed the sea ; 
 This the burden of the call 
 Which shook Senate-house and Hall : 
 "Where, O, where is he, 
 Egypt's Savior, despot's fear, 
 
 Truest friend of Italy ? "
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 19 
 
 " France convulsed ? I cannot stay ! 
 
 Farewell Egypt ! I'll away ! 
 
 Soldiers, rally ! o'er the sea 
 
 There is n,eed of you and me. 
 
 Haste ! your Chief ne'er led to shame 
 
 Barbarous Egypt now is tame." 
 
 Such his words ; let no man say 
 
 That " the coward ran away ; " 
 
 As historians have belied 
 
 Him whose strongest trait was pride, 
 
 Joined with courage, which could dare 
 
 Danger any, everywhere ; 
 
 For his cautious moves, condemned 
 
 By his critics, foe and friend, 
 
 Only led him safely through 
 
 Those in wait on ocean blue. 
 
 Often in this journey home, 
 When the ocean's waves of foam 
 Rose" beneath the moon's pale light, 
 Did he, through the silent night, 
 Pace the deck with restless feet, 
 And to listening men repeat 
 Startling words of holy truth, 
 Fresh as when, in early youth, 
 He had listened with a thrill, 
 While, o'er native plain and hill, 
 Sweetest chime of Sabbath bell 
 On the still air rose and fell. 
 Like to one inspired did he 
 Point to starry canopy,
 
 2O NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 And, from all those brilliant spheres, 
 Rolling through the fleeting years, 
 Gather proof that hands divine 
 Led him 'long the shore of Time. 
 
 Hail, bonny France ! the danger 's past 
 Greet Napoleon, back at last ! 
 Not a sail disturbed his sight 
 Of all Britain's boasted might ; 
 Softly lulled to passion's measure, 
 In the lap of amorous pleasure 
 Lay Lord Nelson, while the fleet 
 Of the French passed his retreat. 
 
 Storms without and storms within, 
 Now kept France in ceaseless din ; 
 But Napoleon grasped the helm, 
 
 Wheeling round the Ship of State, 
 And the waves which would o'erwhelm 
 
 Flowed from majesty so great. . 
 Hostile armies formed outside, 
 Treason muttered far and wide, 
 Bonfires blazed upon the air, 
 And the Lion left his lair. 
 Europe stood, from bayonet-bands 
 Forging chains for Freedom's hands. 
 Lo ! her champion grandly rose 
 To disband these swarms of foes, 
 While his people, strong in right, 
 Fearing not the despots' might,
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 21 
 
 Crowd about his bold advance 
 Proclaiming him Consul of France. 
 
 Glory crowned, the land approved ; 
 But from her he fondly loved 
 
 No glad messages were sent ; 
 Evil tongues, with venomed dart, 
 Kept these loving hearts apart, 
 
 Clouding life's fair firmament. 
 She who bore, with wifely pride, 
 
 Absence, ill, yea, anything, 
 That the world need not deride 
 
 Its brave warrior, her heart's king, 
 Heard the cheers, the joyousness, 
 And bestowed not one caress. 
 But vile slander cannot part 
 Long, the constant, pure in heart. 
 Soon Napoleon clasps again 
 Her who soothes his fiercest pain, 
 Brightening e'en the darkest scene, 
 Sorrowing, faithful Josephine. 
 " Rest, beloved ! " he murmurs low, 
 " Rest, sweet wife ! and ere I go 
 Forth to battle with the foe, 
 And to be where blood shall flow, 
 Hear me say, with Heaven above, 
 That 'tis thee alone I love."
 
 CANTO THE SECOND. 
 
 THE battle 's fought ; Marengo 's won ; 
 And many an eye turns toward the sun 
 Veiled by the filmy hand of Death ; 
 And many a fast departing breath 
 Disturbs the soul with sounds of woe, 
 Which only war-sacked plains can know. 
 The tide of blood had rolled that day 
 In waves it seemed no power could stay ; 
 But everywhere one gleaming eye 
 Had guided war's wild revelry ; 
 Had marked the closing columns' crash, 
 The wheeling squads, the cannon's flash, 
 The swaying flags, the failing foe, 
 The heaven above, the earth below. 
 And everywhere Death rode the gale, 
 And winds prolonged the dying's wail, 
 One face outshone serenely pale ; 
 One steady voice cheered on the fight, 
 And nerved each arm with double might, 
 'Till soon, from out the sulphury night, 
 
 Loud rang the cry of Victory ! 
 Above the din, above the cloud, 
 It rolled in echoes long and loud, 
 And those wrapped in a bloody shroud 
 
 Turned the fast glazing eye
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 2$ 
 
 To bless their Chieftain, home, and France, 
 Then sink in death's eternal trance. 
 
 Hasten ! ye retreating foe ! 
 Forward, French ! to Linden's snow ! 
 And the tide of war rolled on, 
 Rolled till peace at last was won. 
 Haughty Austria! humbled now, 
 To an uncrowned head, lo ! bow ; 
 Sign in truce thy royal name, 
 Take thy heritage of shame, 
 And thy fields of dead, 
 And thy homes whence joy has sped ; 
 But reproach thine own ambition 
 For thine altered, sad condition ; 
 Napoleon only fought that he 
 Might win for France equality. 
 
 Now, with one majestic stride, 
 
 Back the mighty conqueror turns ; 
 
 Moving down the Alps' rough side 
 Still for Fame his bosom burns. 
 
 But not fame from bloody War 
 
 Is his soul outreaching for. 
 
 Monuments he planned to build 
 
 To the memory of the " Killed " ; 
 
 Schools and churches he would found, 
 
 Bridges should unite the ground, 
 
 Mighty towers should grandly rise, 
 
 Stretching toward the sunny skies ; 
 
 And sweet Peace (too soon it flies) 
 
 Should make France a Paradise.
 
 24 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 Such his purpose ; but stern fate 
 Purposed more to make him great ; 
 Great with deeds less mild than these, 
 Great through blood like heaving seas, 
 Rolling o'er his own fair land, 
 Parted by his stern command, 
 That his hosts might walk the bed 
 Where its billows had been spread, 
 While his foes, engulfed from view, 
 Fain had had him o'erwhelmed too. 
 But some strange, some mighty power, 
 Which was manifest each hour, 
 Marked his path, with magic hand, 
 Full of thrones and sceptres grand ; 
 Yet it led through flame and smoke, 
 Cannon-flash, and sabre-stroke, 
 Things infernal and unseen, 1 
 Fields of blood, such as, I ween, 
 Ne'er delighted Satan more, 
 Or left man unscathed before. 
 What avail that peace was won ? 
 That the faces of the dead 
 On the trampled ground outspread, 
 And the hands whose work was done, 
 Ne'er reproached Napoleon ? 
 He had sued of Europe's kings 
 
 1 About this time was constructed the machine, called Infer 
 nal, which was intended to be exploded one night while Napo 
 leon passed through the streets on his way to the theatre. It 
 did explode, killing many and doing much other damage, but 
 fortunately the Emperor escaped unhurt.
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 2$ 
 
 To be spared from such dread things. 1 
 " Ah, he is afraid ! " they said ; 
 Better they had all been dead, 
 Ere his leaden answer sped 
 Over Alps and Alpine snow, 
 To the peaceful plains below. 
 
 Words like these, words couched in blows, 
 Had at last brought France repose. 
 Such repose as cities feel 
 
 Built upon volcanoes' breasts, 
 Ere the earthquake makes them reel 
 
 At old Nature's high behests. 
 France had grown a mighty name, 
 Not a spot dimmed her fair fame ; 
 Pleasure smiled where war had raged, 
 Peace the people all engaged ; 
 
 1 " When appointed First Consul by the French people he 
 immediately wrote to the King of England, as follows : 
 
 " ' Called, Sire, by the wishes of the French nation, to occupy 
 the first magistracy of the Republic, I judge it well on entering 
 my office to address myself directly to your majesty. Must this 
 war, which, for the last four years, has devastated the world, be 
 eternal ? Are there ne means of coming to an understanding ? 
 How can the two most enlightened nations of Europe, stronger 
 already, and more powerful than their safety or independence 
 requires, sacrifice to ideas of vainglory the well being of com 
 merce, internal prosperity, and the repose of families ? Your 
 majesty will perceive only in this overture the sincerity of my de 
 sire to contribute efficaciously, for a second time, to the general 
 pacification by this prompt advance.' To this magnanimous ap 
 plication for peace, the King of England did not judge it proper 
 to return any personal answer. Lord Grenville replied in a let 
 ter full of the most bitter recriminations." J. S. C. ABBOTT.
 
 26 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 At each hearth one name alone 
 
 Oft was heard with " King " and " throne ; " 
 
 "Hail the people's truest friend!" 
 
 " May his glory never end ! " 
 
 This the millions, all as one, 
 
 Shouted for Napoleon. 
 
 Too sweet was peace to triumph long ; 
 
 Down, down with Right ! up, up with Wrong ! 
 
 Old Britain frowns ; 'tis not propitious ; 
 
 " Napoleon 's getting too ambitious." 
 
 Send round again the bended bow, 1 
 
 And drench again the land with woe. 
 
 War ! war ! yes, war to the death ! 
 
 Spare not treasure, spare not breath. 
 
 Then it was that France uprose 
 
 In the face of swarming foes, 
 
 And, 'mid the gloom of Europe's frown, 
 
 Above *he laurel placed a crown. 
 
 Then rose to heaven a mighty shout 
 
 While yet the thunder rolled about 
 
 The Empire's borders ; then began 
 
 Around their Chief to close each man, 
 
 And, desperate with love and pride, 
 
 Beat back the inward rolling tide. 
 
 Hark ! the deep-mouthed cannon's roar, 
 
 Wakes the echoing Alps once more ; 
 
 1 It is supposed that war was anciently proclaimed in Brit 
 ain by sending messengers in different directions, through the 
 land, each bearing a bended bow. See the Cambrian Antiqui 
 ties,
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 2/ 
 
 Valleys glow with bayonets' light, 
 Strong arms nerve them for the fight, 
 Fair hands wave a last good-by, 
 Pale lips hush the bitter cry 
 Of th*e tortured heart when giving 
 All for which that one is living. 
 
 'Mid an Empire's brilliant glare 
 Josephine grew pale with .care 
 Thrones and crowns must have an heir. 
 Yet with soothing words sincere 
 Dries her lord each falling tear, 
 Calming every painful fear. 
 Then, as with a whirlwind's might, 
 Forth he goes to head the fight ; 
 Palaces have sorrowing breasts, 
 Hearts are soft 'neath mailed vests ; 
 Deep his love for Josephine, 
 Deeper still for France, I ween. 
 
 England, on her island throne, 
 Heedless of the people's moan, 
 Proffered gold, and skill, and men, 1 
 France to fill with war again. 
 Fiercely then Mars stamped his foot 
 Till the very Continent shook, 
 And all Europe now combined 
 To resist the march of mind. 
 
 1 " All the wars of the European Continent against the Em 
 pire were begun by England, and supported by English gold." 
 Encyclopedia Americana.
 
 28 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 From the North barbarian hordes 
 Joined with Austria's glittering swords ; 
 Prussian legions swarmed to fill 
 The Allied Army band of ill- 
 United despots, boasting ever, 
 Deemed Napoleon lost forever. 
 Not so he ; with awful might, 
 Pausing not for day or night, 
 On he swept, invincible, 
 Toward Vienna's frowning wall. 
 Lo ! proud Austria's monarch fled ; 
 Onward still the victor sped, 
 'Till the world, with mouth agape, 
 Knew not where to mark the map. 
 
 AUSTERLITZ. 
 
 Dark and drear the night closed in ; 
 From the earth rose ceaseless din ; 
 An hundred thousand haughty foes 
 Have camped among those northern snows. 
 Lo ! what means that sudden light, 
 Gleaming through the gloomy night ; 
 Lighting far and wide the sky 
 With an untold brilliancy ? 1 
 
 1 " As Napoleon rode along the lines in the gloom of mid 
 night, a soldier attached to his bayonet a bundle of straw, and 
 setting it on fire, raised the brilliant torch in the air. Instantly 
 the whole camp, extending for miles, blazed with illuminations,
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 2<) 
 
 Seventy thousand torches glare 
 In the creaking, wintry air ; 
 Seventy thousand voices shout 
 " Vive 1'Errxpereur ! " and about 
 Echo rolls the thrilling cry 
 Like a voice of prophecy. 
 
 Night passed on ; morning broke, 
 Ushering in a day of wonder, 
 
 Pointing through the fog and smoke 
 
 To his men Napoleon spoke : 
 " We'll finish with a clap of thunder ! " 
 Soldiers, on ! the foemen reel 
 Before your gleaming lines of steel ; 
 Thus, confident of power and right, 
 Those legions headlong seek the fight. 
 They look to where their Emperor sits, 
 They shout, "The Sun of Austerlitz !" 
 Then on for, though his comrade fell, 
 Each felt himself invincible. 
 The foe is cut ; he breaks, he flies 
 Beneath the watching Emperors' eyes. 
 Some sink beneath an icy flood 
 
 In fleeing from the field ; 
 Some lie in winding sheets of blood, 
 
 And some as prisoners yield ; 
 
 as the soldiers elevated, flaming into the air, the straw provided 
 for their bivouacs. Transported with the enthusiasm of the 
 moment, the army raised a simultaneous shout, which, like 
 the roar of many waters, pierced the air, and vibrated in omi 
 nous thunders through the tents of the Allies." J. S. C. AB 
 BOTT.
 
 3O NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 And thus Napoleon in an hour 
 Destroys the Allied Army's power. 
 Peace was promised France once more ; 
 But Napoleon, who forebore 
 
 To avail himself of might, 
 And extend his sceptre o'er 
 
 Where his conquest gave him right, 
 Soon had reason to regret 
 
 Acts of such compassion. 1 
 Kings their treaties oft forget, 
 
 Justified by fashion. 
 Though an empire had begun, 
 France was yet republican. 
 
 And that she should dare to choose 
 For herself a low plebeian, 
 
 And with bayonets refuse 
 To accept a Bourbon king ! 
 That was cause enough to bring 
 Combined Europe's despots forth 
 From the great sea to the north. 
 Russia, Prussia, England then 
 Banded for the fight again. 
 Alex., from his borders wide, 
 Gathered up, with Czar-like pride, 
 Hordes of serfs, for centuries trod 
 Mindless, speechless, to the sod, 
 Which with Prussia's sons unite 
 In the coming, causeless fight. 
 
 1 "In his vast conquests he had shown the most singular 
 moderation, a moderation which ought to have put England, 
 Russia, and Prussia to the blush." J. S. C. ABBOTT.
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 31 
 
 Reader, are you tired of blood 
 Flowing like a ceaseless flood? 
 So Napoleon was, though he 
 Fought almost continually, 
 And some oftentimes do say 
 He loved war yet wherefore, pray? 
 Was't for fame ? that would increase 
 From his works for France, in peace. 
 Was't for wealth? he needed none. 
 What then led Napoleon 
 To the battle-field again? 
 To Jena's trampled, bloody plain ? 
 The haughty edict of his foes, 
 The right his crown to save, 
 His country's glory and repose, 
 His subjects' honored graves. 
 Tired of war ? Yet rouse thee, France ! 
 Check thy foes, who fast advance ! 
 On ! Napoleon guides you yet. . 
 On ! Hope's star has not yet set. 
 Form and forward ! every man ! 
 And again the red blood ran. 
 Bayonets bristled, cannon spoke 
 Through the sulphury clouds of smoke ; 
 Loving eyes grew dim in death, 
 Heroes flung away their breath ; 
 Cannon shook the hills around, 
 Bullets ploughed deep in the ground, 
 Frantic steeds, with furious neigh, 
 Galloped o'er where dead men lay ;
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARl^E. 
 
 Batteries belched, and columns broke, 
 Banners flaunted in the smoke, 
 Death-cries mingled with the crash 
 Of the charging squadron's dash. 
 Everywhere, with savage leer, 
 Death looks on the warrior's bier. 
 On Landgrafenberg's far height 
 Napoleon stands and rules the fight ; 
 Guiding with his mighty mind 
 That vast sea of mad mankind. 
 Silent, stern, conscious of right, 
 He wields his awful arm of might ; 
 Russian and Prussian melt before 
 That arm, and sink to rise no more. 
 Night comes the allied foe have fled 
 The few who sleep not with the dead, 
 Or, prisoners to the victor, wait 
 The captured soldier's weary fate. 
 The stars come out, the deed is done, 
 And France is saved, for Jena 's won. 
 
 Again Napoleon sues for peace ; 
 Again he gladly seeks release 
 From war, its agony intense 
 Of famine and of pestilence. 
 But the Czar's domains are wide, 
 Great his army, great his pride ; 
 And the Prussian Queen has power, 
 Wit and beauty for her dower : 
 Fill the broken ranks again, 
 And the plains with dying men.
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 33 
 
 Stopping just to pen a line 
 
 To the anxious Josephine, 
 
 In a few brief words to say 
 
 He had won a victory, 
 
 And he loved her tenderly ; 1 
 
 Then dispelling every thought 
 
 Save those which were richly fraught 
 
 With the future weal of France, 
 
 To his troops he speaks, " Advance ! " 
 
 And resistlessly they pour 
 
 'Long Vistula's frozen shore. 
 
 Hostile batteries may oppose, 
 
 Countless miles of drifted snows, 
 
 Sheltered bands of deadly foes, 
 
 But their Chieftain's wondrous will 
 
 Makes each man invincible ; 
 
 Every heart is nerved by his 
 
 To accomplish prodigies. 
 
 What though marching to their graves ! 
 
 Better this than live as slaves ! 
 
 Eylau's horrors might appall 
 
 Hearts of less devotion ; 
 But, though every soldier fall 
 
 In the wild commotion, 
 
 1 " MON AMIE, II y a eu hier une grande bataille ; la vic- 
 toire m'est, mais j'ai perdu bien du monde ; la perte de 1'en- 
 nemi qui est plus considerable encore, ne me console pas. 
 Enfin je t'ecris ces 2 lignes moi-meme, quoique je sois bien 
 fatigue, pour te dire que je suis bien portant, et que je t'amie. 
 
 " Tout a toi, NAPOLEON. 
 
 "3 heures du matin le 9 Fevrier." 
 3
 
 34 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 None e'er grudged his life to give, 
 That, through him, his country live. 
 
 Words are weak the scene to paint ; 
 Gazing on it one grows faint ; 
 Gathered in the gloomy night, 
 Marshaling for the awful fight, 
 Covered o'er with whirling snow 
 Drifting on the sheets below, 
 Guided by the watchfires' light, 
 Legions seek the place assigned 
 By the ruling master-mind. 
 Morning shivers through the clouds 
 Hanging from the sky like shrouds ; 
 But the light that dimly broke 
 Soon was quenched in seas of smoke ; 
 Nature veiled her pallid face 
 O'er the scene by man defaced. 
 Still they battled ; still the tide 
 Ebbed and flowed on either side ; 
 Battled till the weary sun 
 
 Sank in fright away, 
 Glad his sickening course was run, 
 
 Glad to hide the day 
 From a world so black with crime 
 It did terrify old Time. 
 
 Why shock the reader more to tell ? 
 How many fought, how many fell ? 
 How the proud Allies, forced to flee, 
 Conceded France the victory ;
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 How she pursued with flame and smoke, 
 
 And this sixth coalition broke ? 
 
 How Friedland lay a ruined heap, 
 
 And thousands slept a " dreamless sleep " 
 
 Amid the ice, among the snows, 
 
 Where Niemen river seaward flows ? 
 
 How Alexander yielded then 
 
 To the most mighty of all men, 
 
 And, conquered both by arms and mind, 
 
 The Peace of Tilsit gladly signed. 
 
 Brilliant grew the Empire's fame ; 
 Brightly shone Napoleon's name ; 
 On him gazed a world with awe 
 As he made for nations law ; 
 People of less favored lands 
 Looked on his devoted bands 
 Through their tears, and longed to be 
 Where worth led to royalty. 
 Spain, long cursed with Bourbon sway, 
 Threw her jeweled crown away ; 
 And her subjects, faction-rent, 
 Eyed fair France with discontent. 
 Well Napoleon knew that he 
 Must prepare for treachery, 
 And he wisely caught the crown 
 Which the Spanish Prince flung down. 
 Then the despots, all dismayed, 
 Whet again the battle blade. 
 England, ever in the van, 
 Places France beneath a ban,
 
 36 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 And with all her fighting men 
 Soon prepares for war again. 
 Thus the crash of armies came 
 Shaking poor, voluptuous Spain, 
 Where unnumbered heroes fell 
 With nor sigh, nor sob, nor knell. 
 England made her lines of swords, 
 Prussia sent abroad her hordes, 
 Serf with despot did unite 
 Battling to oppose the right. 
 Thus they fought, determined all 
 That Napoleon's power should fall. 
 But, though England ruled the sea, 
 France did hold the victory 
 On the land, and showed her might 
 In each hurried, awful fight. 
 Still the loss of life, so great, 
 Made Napoleon curse his fate ; 
 And, so fast there gathered foes, 
 In his breast the thought arose, 
 Might he not restrain the tide 
 Rolling redly far and wide, 
 If to royal blood allied ? 
 Much he dreaded to remove 
 Her whom he so fondly loved, 
 And so long as hope remained 
 That by war peace might be gained, 
 He would meet his countless foes 
 With the weapons which they chose. 
 Was he not the people's choice ? 
 Did not nations then rejoice
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 37 
 
 'Neath his sway? and should he be 
 Forced to war eternally? 
 
 Traitors soon began to stir, 
 
 And a ceaseless clang and whirr 
 
 Rose aloft at Mars' dread call, 
 
 France seemed one vast arsenal. 
 
 Back from Spain this mighty man 
 
 Hurriedly had come to scan, 
 
 And to crush (tremendous mission !) 
 
 A seventh great coalition. 
 
 Heaven again reflected light 
 
 From the bayonets, glistening bright ; 
 
 Foundries burned far in the night, 
 
 Thousands armed them for the fight; 
 
 Armed and marched to meet a foe, 
 
 Which would lay an Empire low, 
 
 And erect again 
 
 Bourbon thrones, with Bourbon kings, 
 All those hateful, dreaded things, 
 
 Over heaps of slain. 
 
 Some have called my countrymen 
 Heroes ; tell me when, O when 
 Did Columbia's sons arise 
 Glorying in such sacrifice ? 
 Battling long and patiently 
 Merely for equality ? 
 
 Once again the cannon's flash 
 Gleamed above the squadrons' dash ;
 
 38 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 Once again the batt'ries swept 
 
 Ranks on ranks of heroes down ; 
 While the widow's children wept 
 
 Tears to ornament a crown ; 
 And the "volleying thunder" spoke 
 Through the surging seas of smoke, 
 As if there it did invoke 
 Great Jehovah's curse on men, 
 Who could thus his laws condemn. 
 
 BATTLE OF ECKMUHL. 
 
 The sky is fair, the sun is rising bright, 
 
 Dispelling silently a silver mist, 
 Which in the soft and stilly hours of night, 
 
 Has sought the earth to wait his burning kiss. 
 
 No penciled scene could fairer be than this, 
 The blue above, the verdant earth below, 
 
 As heaven and earth were keeping loving tryst ; 
 Alas ! they never weep o'er human woe, 
 Or grieve for that which men on fellow-man be 
 stow. 
 
 Could one have placed himself aloft that day, 
 Far higher than the eagle's flight can be, 
 
 And had his power of sight been keen alway 
 To pierce that rolling, rising, smoky sea, 
 Though doubting God, he would have bent the 
 knee,
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 39 
 
 And asked for might, or asked that He would 
 
 veil 
 A scene so fraught with woe, it should but be 
 
 Some old imaginary song, or tale, 
 Told with a stifled laugh to make young cheeks 
 grow pale. 
 
 On spot so fair the battle-cloud had burst, 
 
 Disclosing all its awfulness to view : 
 Fierce squadrons galloped o'er the plain where 
 
 erst 
 
 The timid birdlings unmolested flew. 
 The sun's warm rays, at noontide, drank the 
 
 dew, 
 When rolled the first deep cannon-tone ; and 
 
 then 
 A livid burst of war came on and grew, 
 
 'Till balls ploughed through such solid ranks 
 
 of men, 
 
 One might have thought Jehovah justly slew, 
 Regardless, in his wrath, of e'en his chosen few. 
 
 The hills were shaken with the cannon's roar, 
 And tramp of squadrons reeling to and fro ; 
 The ground grew red, and glared with human 
 
 gore, 
 
 And men forgot they were not down below, 
 Nor cared for shrieking friend, but sought the 
 
 foe 
 
 Through seas of smoke, and jets of falling 
 flame ;
 
 4<D NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 Wild grew each eye, and glad to watch the flow 
 Of blood, and, shouting in the din Napoleon's 
 
 name, 
 
 On rushed the French, and on the haughty Allies 
 came. 
 
 They met ; and earth, as with an earthquake's 
 
 shock, 
 Trembled beneath the crash which shook 
 
 again 
 The hills, as though they were a wave-worn 
 
 rock, 
 
 Just toppling for a tumble in the main. 
 And shout, and curse, and shriek of awful pain, 
 Rose o'er the thousand heavier sounds, as 
 
 they, 
 Who yet are left to ride above the slain, 
 
 Form, charge, and still with reckless fury slay, 
 And balance well the battle till the close of day. 
 
 Napoleon watches, plans, and guides each 
 
 stroke ; 
 
 He turns a look on his Imperial Guard, 
 Impatient gazing on each surge of smoke, 
 
 With eyes of fire, and features stern and hard, 
 Clinched hands, set teeth, and many a visage 
 
 scarred, 
 With battle-scars. He feels the moment 's 
 
 near, 
 
 " Charge ! Forward ! On ! " The Old Imperial 
 Guard,
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE, 41 
 
 Dark, stately, massy, move without a cheer 
 Adown the sloping plain, and sweeping on, they 
 near 
 
 And trample o'er their fallen comrades. See ! 
 
 From out the Allies' lines, a mass, as dark, 
 Comes forth like refluent billow of the sea 
 
 And surges on sublimely grand ; and hark ! 
 Hushed is each sound save those which mark 
 
 The awful thrill each army feels. Each eye 
 Is riveted ; and dead men, stiff and stark, 
 
 Might 'wake to look on such sublimity, 
 For on those moving hosts Old Europe casts the 
 die. 
 
 They meet, and clash ! those living waves of 
 
 men! 
 
 With foam of blood, and fiery flash of steel, 
 And smoke, which, as a shroud, envelops them 
 From roaring cannon, answering cannon peal. 
 The Austrian ranks are mown, and soon re 
 veal 
 The battle's havoc, and a King's defeat ; 
 
 Flags flaunting sway, as cheers of vict'ry steal 
 Upon the air, with sadder sounds replete, 
 Where dying heroes fell, and conquering heroes 
 meet. 
 
 Austria's Imperial Guard gives way, 
 .For two thirds of its numbers strew the 
 ground ;
 
 42 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 And as the beams of light grow faint and gray, 
 The heavens reecho the exultant sound 
 Which rises from the victors ; far around 
 Are seen War's crushed and bleeding victims \ 
 
 far 
 
 The steps of the retreating foe resound : 
 
 The twilight fades, and now the evening star 
 
 Beholds the victor grieving o'er the field of war.
 
 CANTO THE THIRD. 
 
 " ON ! to Austria's Capitol ! 
 Batter down each frowning wall ! " 
 Cried the French ; and on they sped 
 Over crushed and mangled dead. 
 Naught could stay th' impetuous mass ; 
 Height ne'er rose they dare not pass; 
 Ran no river, stood no town, 
 They'd not cross, or batter down. 
 Bullets could not stop their course, 
 Batteries were useless force ; 
 And ere long Vienna's spires 
 
 Rose distinct to view ; 
 And her walls were wrapped in fires 
 
 As the conflict grew; 
 Wrapped in fires which fiercely spread, 
 'Till the coward Francis fled 1 
 Leaving, in his sore dismay, 
 To the victor's clemency, 
 His frail child, who suffering lay. 
 Strange the fate which, later, led 
 
 To the throne of Charlemagne, 
 This same princess, to be wed 
 
 With the man whose mighty name 
 
 1 The Austrian Emperor fled from his Capitol on the ap 
 proach of Napoleon's victorious army, leaving his child, Maria 
 Louisa, who lay sick at the time.
 
 44 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 Changed at once a nation's fate, 
 And whose armies, at the gate 
 Of her burning city, wait 
 'Till it shall capitulate. 
 Proud Vienna ! what a fall ! 
 Over Austria's Capitol, 
 Floats the same tri-colored sign, 
 Waving o'er the gleaming Rhine. 
 Thus Napoleon gloriously 
 Crowned his arms with victory ; 
 Europe trembled at his nod 
 As he swayed the iron rod 
 Of his justice o'er the lands, 
 And with his devoted bands 
 Drove before him princes, kings, 
 Emperors, and lesser things ; 
 Reaping from the land along, 
 Many a blessing, many a song, 
 Sung by those who feared defeat 
 Was a word with woes replete. 
 Born upon an isle afar, 
 Guided by his natal Star, 
 Rising solely by his will, 
 And his own unrivaled skill, 
 With two Empires at his feet, 
 Where I ask, and where, repeat, 
 Rose so great a man before 
 One who should be honored more ? 
 France has dealt an awful blow, 
 But has not yet crushed her foe ; 
 Many a shriek has yet to rise 
 To the gloomy, northern skies;
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE 45 
 
 Many a loyal heart must be 
 Stilled amid strange misery ; 
 Much of life-blood, flowing free, 
 Yet must, color Danube's waves ;. 
 Thousands, fit for heroes' graves, 
 
 Yet must writhe beneath the tread 
 Of red-crested, ruthless Mars, 
 And the weary, watching stars, 
 
 Yet must gleam on fields of dead, 
 Ere fair France with peacefulness 
 Her devoted sons can bless. 
 
 WAGRAM. 
 
 The night had been a night of fearful gloom ; 
 On Wagram's field a mighty host had lain ; 
 
 But scarcely will red Ruin e'er find room 
 The coming day, upon that trampled plain, 
 To pile his ghastly heaps of human slain. 
 
 ii. 
 
 Through all the night, into the gray of morn, 
 From post to post Napoleon headlong sped, 
 
 With eagle eye to watch, though ne'er to scorn 
 The humblest soldier, or his humbler bed ; 
 For warm his heart for those his wisdom led. 
 
 in. 
 
 As morning broke unceasing din arose, 
 
 For lines were formed, and batteries planted high
 
 46 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 Each soldier grasps his arms no more repose 
 War claims each thought, and softer feelings fly ; 
 Stern grows each brow, and stern each flashing 
 eye. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yet in those bands how many a noble heart 
 
 Beat faster for the loved ones far away ! 
 But battle-fields are not for tears to start ! 
 At least when heroes hasten to the fray ; 
 These must be stern 'tis those at home must 
 pray. 
 
 v. 
 
 A mighty host! three hundred thousand men, 
 Each at another aiming for a blow ! 
 
 What human power that awful tide can stem ? 
 Or who can hope, 'mid general overthrow, 
 To breast its billows as they wildly flow? 
 
 VI. 
 
 O, never yet hath pen been made to tell, 
 Or pencil paint, in colors that can vie 
 
 With those which many there saw but too well, 
 The sad, the terrible reality 
 O'er which, that day, was bent the murky sky. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Napoleon formed his lines ; and through the smoke 
 With which the batteries, far and near, began 
 
 The atmosphere with sulphury smell to choke, 
 With awful might he executes each plan, 
 Nerves, guides, and singles out each man.
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 47 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Upon one move the Empire's fate is cast : 
 The Austrian centre must be pierced ; and he, 
 
 The hero of the -fight, whose name has passed 
 Down history's pages, crowned with victory, 
 McDonald ! thine the daring task must be ! 
 
 IX. 
 
 Along they thunder ; men of iron will, 
 
 Braced by the cannon at each flank and rear, 
 
 And headed by McDonald, dark and still, 
 Who never felt one thrill of human fear, 
 And loved his land with loving most sincere. 
 
 x. 
 
 On, on they sweep ! and mark the path they make ! 
 Like one vast swath the dead are left behind ! 
 
 Mark how the Austrian batteries rake 
 
 Those solid ranks of men, 'till earth is lined 
 With heroes. Heaven should weep if 'twere not 
 blind. 
 
 XI. 
 
 At times the line will stagger waver reel, 
 As that tremendous fire cuts down its head ; 
 
 Then gaze again, and every man seems steel, 
 'Till he, too, sinks upon the mangled dead, 
 And lies there crushed beneath his comrades' 
 tread. 
 
 XII. 
 
 Those brave ranks reel, and now McDonald's voice 
 Rings o'er the din. He waves his hand, all 
 glance
 
 48 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 Towards yonder height, where stands their Chief. 
 
 " Rejoice, 
 
 And on ! ere yet the Old Guard shall advance, 
 For ye, my braves, can save the flags of France ! " 
 
 XIII. 
 
 It is enough ; these words, this thought inspires : 
 They shout, " Napoleon ! France ! " and ere the 
 
 sound 
 
 Dies 'mid the thunder, lo ! the Austrian fires 
 Fall harmless on the gory, trampled ground : 
 They've pierced the centre, and the foe lie dead 
 around. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 With sixteen thousand men that charge began. 
 
 Now look along the land with life-blood red 
 But sixteen hundred stand there, man for man ; 
 
 So well have flown those awful bolts of lead, 
 
 Ten out of every eleven lie dead. 
 
 xv. 
 
 O, brave McDonald ! France may justly boast 
 Thy greatness. Joined with Napoleon's name 
 
 And Wagram's, thine grows bright among the host 
 Of those whose deeds, though great, by yours were 
 
 tame, 
 And blazons France with an immortal fame. 
 
 For the seventh time France was free ; * 
 For the seventh time victory 
 
 1 " The first coalition against France was concluded between
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 49 
 
 Crowned her banners. Austria 
 At Napoleon's mercy lay, 
 Taught by loss of life and power, 
 Woe 's the. day, and woe 's the hour, 
 
 Austria and Prussia, to check the progress of the French Rev 
 olution, February 7, 1792. 
 
 " The second coalition was that of 1793, in which Germany de 
 clared war against Republican France, and was joined by Portu 
 gal, Naples, Tuscany, and the Pope. 
 
 " The third coalition was formed at St. Petersburg, between 
 England, Russia, and Austria, September 28, 1795. Napoleon 
 was then just emerging into manhood. He drove the English 
 from Toulon ; repelled the invading Austrians, and shattered 
 the third coalition by the tremendous blows he struck in the 
 Italian campaign. England, from her inaccessible island, con 
 tinued the war, and organized a fourth coalition against France, 
 with Russia, Austria, Naples, and Turkey, December 28, 1798. 
 The ties of this coalition Napoleon severed with his sword at 
 Marengo. Hardly had one short year passed ere England again 
 declared war, and formed theyf/?^ coalition, April 18, 1803, be 
 tween England, Russia, Austria, and Prussia. At Ulm and 
 Austerlitz Napoleon again repelled his assailants, and again 
 compelled them to sheathe the sword. But hardly had the 
 blade entered the scabbard before it was again drawn, and 
 fiercely brandished as England, Russia, Prussia, Saxony, and 
 other minor powers formed a sixth coalition, and marched upon 
 France. Napoleon met them at Jena and Auerstadt, at Eylau 
 and Friedland, and disciplined them into good behavior. The 
 peace of Tilsit was signed July 9, 1807. Not two years had 
 passed before England had organized a seventh coalition with 
 the insurgents of Spain and Portugal, and with Austria. On 
 the blood-stained field of Wagram, Napoleon detached Austria 
 from this alliance. The peace of Vienna was signed October 
 14, 1809." 
 
 4
 
 50 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 When insulted France arises, 
 And with marches and surprises, 
 Forces, from her strongest foe, 
 Peace at one tremendous blow. 
 Gladly Francis, in his shame, 
 To the peace affixed his name ; 
 And weary Europe smiled once more, 
 And chanted hymns from shore to shore 
 But England, ocean-bound, decrees 
 That France shall never be at peace, 
 Till on her throne a Bourbon sit, 
 And "plebeian generals " bow to it. 
 
 Earthly power is often pain, 
 Causing tears to fall like rain ; 
 For, upon the nation's sky, 
 Soon Napoleon's practiced eye 
 Could discern, as clouds are seen 
 When the air seems most serene, 
 One small spot, which threatened fast, 
 
 Though no larger than a hand, 
 All the sky to overcast, 
 
 And to shroud again the land 
 In the gloom which gathers o'er 
 Lands made dark with human gore. 
 
 Love must make his sacrifice ; 
 Interest must sunder ties 
 Strong as were those words of law, 
 Which the sons of Israel saw
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 'Graved by Moses on a stone 
 When he talked with God alone. 
 Thrones and crowns need heirs ; and he 
 Who hath raised fair France to be 
 Great and glorious, from her shame 
 Would perpetuate his name, 
 And by an illustrious bride 
 Win this boon, so long denied. 
 
 DIVORCE OF JOSEPHINE. 
 
 In a palace hall met a royal crowd ; 
 
 There were kings, and queens, and men of state ; 
 There was pomp and glitter, and two heads 
 bowed, 
 
 Low bowed to the awful blow of fate. 
 O'er every face seemed a shade of gloom, 
 
 To many a lip arose a sigh, 
 And the dazzling light of that gorgeous room 
 
 All felt, at a glance, most painfully. 
 
 The monarch, dressed in his robes of state, 
 
 With pallid brow and wandering eye, 
 And a bloodless lip which told the weight 
 
 Of the sorrow borne so silently, 
 'Gainst a marble pillar leaned calm and still, 
 
 And sadly gazed on the silent throng, 
 As the words were read, which, spite his will, 
 
 Took from him her he had loved so long.
 
 52 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE 
 
 And the Empress sat with her head bowed down, 
 
 And face as white as the winter's snow ; 
 O, who can tell how that glittering crown 
 
 Wrung her tender heart with its weight of woe ! 
 Alas ! that a woman e'er must give 
 
 Her heart's best love on the shrine of fame ; 
 For the two in her bosom cannot live, 
 
 The bliss of love and the pride of name. 
 
 The words are read, and the deed is done ; 
 
 The widowed Empress has left the room ; 
 The tears of her daughter are flowing fast, 
 
 Her son is wrapped in unconscious gloom. 
 And the husband ! he of the royal will, 
 
 And deeds which have filled a world with awel 
 His sore heart bleeds, but his lips are dumb, 
 
 For the people's will is the people's law. 1 
 
 When the stars came out, the Emperor sought 
 
 His lonely room and his vacant bed ; 
 His brow was ashen with bitter thought, 
 
 He entered the chamber as one were dead ; 
 But he scarcely had lain himself to rest 
 
 When, sobbing and overcome with woe, 
 The Empress slowly, with loosened dress, 
 
 Entered the room, her head bowed low. 
 
 1 "Though Josephine was loved as an amiable sovereign, 
 who represented goodness and grace by the side of might, the 
 French desired, with regard for her, another marriage which 
 should give heirs to the Empire. Nor did they confine them 
 selves to wishes on the subject." THIERS.
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 53 
 
 A moment more, and Napoleon caught 
 His weeping wife to his heaving breast, 
 
 There, clasped in a faithful, fond embrace, 
 We leave the two to that last, sad rest. 
 
 The bonds of law are broken ; 
 The farewell words are spoken ; 
 Napoleon sits alone 
 On his grand, unrivaled throne ; 
 But a bitter, burning pain, 
 Agony, intense as vain, 
 Colors all his future sky 
 With an awful brilliancy ; 
 Awful with the voiceless woe 
 Hearts unfilled forever know ; 
 Brilliant to his longing glance 
 With the fate he paints for France, 
 When the cloud of war no more 
 Shall its crimson rain outpour. 
 Thus with eager hopefulness, 
 Does he look at last for rest, 
 When he shall have wed with one 
 Young and fair, and royal born, 
 
 Daughter of the Austrian king. 
 She it was whom Interest chose 
 For Napoleon's future spouse, 
 
 Peace unto the lands to bring. 
 
 Bonny France then glowed with light ; 
 From each valley and each height, 
 Bonfires blazed, and music's clang 
 On the breezes rose and rang ;
 
 54 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 Universal shoutings sent 
 To the echoing firmament, 
 Told the people joyed to know 
 There now seemed an end to woe. 
 Mirth and music, pride and power, 
 Hastened on each lagging hour, 
 And the French, o'erjoyed, excited, 
 Cheered for nations thus united. 
 All seems gladness ; but two hearts 
 Every strain of music starts. 
 Josephine, in palace pent, 
 Prays with dim eyes upward bent 
 To the cloudless firmament ; 
 While the Emperor, in state, 
 Meets his bride, accepting fate ; 
 Feeling all that dazzling show, 
 Through which calmly he must go, 
 Bitterest mockery of his woe. 
 
 England, still, with hatred fanned 
 Each unrest in every land, 
 Pouring through insurgent Spain 
 Armies, till each height and plain 
 Rang with many a martial strain. 
 In the north war seemed at rest; 
 One had hardly dared to guess 
 That the sky, which seemed so clear, 
 Held a tempest most severe. 
 
 Hear ye not the clang of bells 
 Which upon the soft air swells ?
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 55 
 
 Hear ye not exultant notes 
 
 As the cannon's thunder floats 
 
 Forth upon the trembling air ? 
 
 Do ye ask what means that cheer 
 
 Rising to heaven's lofty dome ? 
 
 There is born a king for Rome. 
 
 These glad sounds announce his birth 
 
 To the monarchs of the earth. 
 
 Well, ah, well! I would that he 
 
 Linked more close to Austria 
 
 France, that war no more might be. 
 
 For, alas ! clouds quickly spread 
 
 From the Northland overhead, 
 
 And their muttering thunders pour 
 
 Through the skies of France once more. 
 
 Russia has awoke to life. 
 
 And is eager for the strife, 
 
 Urged by England's gold and power, 
 
 To " let loose the dogs of war." 
 
 Weary, worn, yet full of pride, 
 
 France prepares to stem the tide. 
 
 Judging from her past career 
 
 She hath now no cause to fear. 
 
 Quickly then she forms her lines ; 
 
 Death to all ! ere she resigns 
 
 That brave heart, whose throbbings make 
 
 Europe's gathered despots quake. 
 
 Gallop columns ; marshal bands \ 
 Pushing toward the hostile lands, 
 Shaking many a kingdom's base 
 In the world's bewildered face.
 
 56 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 Critics wonder at the stride 
 Of Napoleon's injured pride. 
 Alexander should have known 
 He'd not tamely be o'erthrown ; 
 For his troops were fond as brave, 
 Nor recked of life their land to save ; 
 And now they felt he needed them 
 Some terrific tide to stem. 
 This alone sufficed to rouse 
 Stalwart men from every house ; 
 This alone sufficed, when they, 
 Snug within their quarters, lay 
 By the Volga's shore, to say, 
 " Soldiers ! there 's a foe to brave ! 
 Filled ye not full many a grave 
 With our foes, at red Marengo ? 
 Hurled ye not your thousands low 
 At Austerlitz and Friedland ? 
 Are ye not that gallant band 
 Which, on Wagram's bloody plain, 
 Strewed the ground with foemen slain ? " 
 Spoke their chief such words, and lo I 
 Forth those massive columns go, 
 Heedless both of cold and snow, 
 While the world looks on with eyes 
 Wide and widening with surprise, 
 That Napoleon should thus dare 
 " Beard the lion in his lair ; " 
 Marching with a whirlwind's start 
 Into Russia's very heart. 
 Thus, obedient to his will, 
 Onward move his armies, till
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 Russian plains and Russian skies 
 Meet the anxious soldiers' eyes. 
 Onward still, until in sight 
 Moscow's spires are gleaming bright. 
 'Long the Russian lines have fled 
 
 Those who should have staid to meet, 
 And in many a home, instead, 
 
 Desolation reigns complete, 
 Desolation, silent, chill, 
 Seeming harbinger of ill. 
 But unto those weary men 
 Those brave, uncomplaining men 
 Food and rest most tempting are j 
 And they gladly shelter them 
 In the city of the Czar. 
 But not long ; behold ! the sky 
 Glows with startling brilliancy. 
 " Ho, there ! comrades ! fire ! fire ! fire ! 
 See ! the city is on fire ! " 
 Every moment flames leap higher 
 " Where 's the Corporal ? find him ! call ! 
 Save him, though the skies should fall ! " 
 Ah ! his eye had caught the glare 
 Ere the creaking, frosty air 
 Quivered to that lusty cry, 
 Echoed by the starry sky ; 
 And his mighty mind had grasped 
 All the dangers to be passed 
 'Mid that wild and hostile clime, 
 Ere those loyal hearts had time 
 To suspect the maddened foe 
 Meant to fire their city so,
 
 58 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 And to lay its grandeur low, 
 
 That they might find graves of snow. 
 
 BURNING OF MOSCOW. 
 
 In the chill and gloom of the still night air 
 
 There suddenly rose up a torch-light glare ; 
 
 Steadily, grandly, the flame stretched high, 
 
 'Till it seemed to dance on the northern sky ; 
 
 And it gathered strength as it shot along, 
 
 As a singer's voice at the close of song ; 
 
 And it gathered brilliancy, too, and might, 
 
 Till the whole heavens glowed with the sea of light. 
 
 The furious flames, with their breath of fire, 
 
 Seemed one vast, extending, funeral pyre ; 
 
 Palace and cottage, each hut and hall, 
 
 The noble's couch, and the peasant's stall, 
 
 The beauty's satins, the beggar's rags, 
 
 Most costly jewels, and waving flags, 
 
 Spices and fruits, and all things grand, 
 
 Served but to heat up the flame-licked land. 
 
 And the flames grew fiercer, until a sea 
 
 Of the rolling fire surged brilliantly ; 
 
 And the sweeping winds, with their frozen breath, 
 
 Rushed to the warmth and were burned to death; 
 
 Or howled, with a piteous clamor, out 
 
 To the still free breezes which roamed about ; 
 
 While the terrible heat, for miles around, 
 
 Withered, and scorched, yea, and blistered the 
 
 ground. 
 
 Poet or painter ne'er dared to dream 
 Of aught that could equal the strange, wild scene.
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE, 59 
 
 Far out in the shadow, o'er plains of snow, 
 At times there trembles a savage glow, 
 As echo answers the ringing crash 
 Of the flaming towers as they downward dash ; 
 Or, like wandering meteors, shoot through air, 
 And light up each nook with a fearful glare ; 
 And the form of man, like an insect small, 
 Crouches down, low down by many a wall, 
 While the flames roll on in their awful might, 
 Till they force the shivering wretch to flight ; 
 And the murmur of friend, as he seeks the snow, 
 Is echoed in groans by the burning foe. 
 
 And thus they writhed, and shrieked, and died ; 
 And the fire-fiend swayed his sceptre wide, 
 And grinned o'er the city's burning pride ; 
 For swiftly the pride of the city fell, 
 Engulfed in those crimson waves of hell. 
 
 Napoleon viewed, with a mournful eye, 
 
 That scene of surpassing sublimity ; 
 
 For he felt, when the flames of Moscow rose, 
 
 They were deadlier far than all human foes ; 
 
 And he knew, when the burning city fell, 
 
 That his army's doom was inevitable. 
 
 But the hungry flames, for the lack of food, 
 
 Or by will of God, were at length subdued, 
 
 And the French were left, 'mid the drifting snow, 
 
 Outside of the place where had stood Moscow. 
 
 Conquering French ! Yet forced to go 
 Through a dreary realm of snow.
 
 60 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 Lords of what ? A city's grave, 
 
 Desolation, want, and woe ; 
 Vanquished not, yet suffering still 
 
 All the ills of overthrow. 
 Sullen, proud, reluctant, they 
 Turn about to force their way 
 Through a frozen wilderness, 
 Followed closely by distress, 
 And a foe, which, now and then, 
 Pounced upon those weary men; 
 And which gathered savage strength 
 As the army trailed its length, 
 As compactly as could be, 
 O'er the desolate country. 
 On the rear, the left, the right, 
 Some must stand and breast the fight, 
 While the rest, with measured tread, 
 Hurriedly march on ahead. 
 But the foe they dreaded most 
 Was not any human host ; 
 Frost and famine thinned their bands 
 As though culled by demon hands ; 
 Some lay down with stupid stare 
 In the depths of frosty air ; 
 Others, wrapped in bloody shrouds, 
 Fell beneath the falling clouds 
 Of drifting snow and driving sleet. 
 All along that sad retreat 
 The dead lay 'neath the living's feet, 
 Mingled with the vast array 
 Of the wealth they flung away,
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 6 1 
 
 When, too weary more to bear, 
 They had yielded to despair, 
 Or alone had sought to save 
 Themselves from a foreign grave. 
 Shrank not then Napoleon's soul, 
 As those living horrors roll, 
 Fast and thick, on every side, 
 O'er his mighty army's pride ? 
 No. With iron firmness then 
 He infused into his men 
 Something of his own strong hope, 
 Giving strength with Death to cope. 
 Scarce one murmuring voice arose 
 Though they felt so many woes. 
 For too feeble is the pen 
 To immortalize such men ; 
 Men, who, daring danger, death, 
 Men, who, yielding up their breath, 
 Gloried in this great bequest, 
 Cheered their chief, and sank to rest. 
 Thus they moved, blest with the thought 
 
 That they'd reach a place at last, 
 Where a shelter might be had, 
 
 And perhaps a good repast. 
 But as on they boldly strode 
 O'er the pathless, trackless road, 
 News was sent, each place of rest 
 Was with Russian troops infest ; 
 And, that, freezing, faint, and weak, 
 Not yet were their woes complete. 
 They had yet to onward press / 
 
 Through a frozen wilderness,
 
 62 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 Blocked up oft with deadly foes, 
 And the still descending snows. 
 Pierced with cold, with hunger faint, 
 Still they would not make complaint j 
 Still they formed their lines, and met 
 Russian ranks, with lips firm set, 
 And with hands as strong to deal 
 
 Death and ill by ball or blow, 
 As when erst their cannon's peal 
 
 Shook that startled land of snow. 
 
 Still, with Ney to guard the rear, 
 
 (Rightly named the bravest brave, - 
 He who never dreamed of fear,) 
 
 Thousands found a nameless grave. 
 Many times the savage foe 
 Separated with quick blow 
 His brave squadrons, and each host 
 Seemed to each forever lost ; 
 Then, with most tremendous might, 
 Each would close the foe in fight, 
 And through bullets reunite ; 
 'Till that long retreat at last, 
 With its awful woes, was passed ; 
 And brave Ney the Niemen o'er, 
 Fired the last shot on its shore, 
 Then, with tears and tenderness, 
 Turned his soldiers to embrace. 
 
 O, how scanty was the band 
 Who beheld their native land ;
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 63 
 
 Veterans, who had hurled the foe 
 
 To the dust upon Marengo, 
 
 Dreamless slept 'mid northern snow. 
 
 Marshals who had watched " the sun 
 
 Of Austerlitz," the battle won, 
 
 Reposed within a foreign grave 
 
 O'er which the French flag ne'er might wave ; 
 
 While, to every home in France, 
 
 Sorrow stalked in swift advance, 
 
 Making cheeks and lips all pale 
 
 With its terribly sad tale. 
 
 On one gray and gloomy night, 
 
 When o'er Paris silence lay, 
 Chilly as the northern snows 
 
 Falling softly far away, 
 When around the Tuileries 
 
 Darkness seemed to gather thick, 
 And the Empress had retired 
 
 To her chamber, sad and sick ; 
 Suddenly the door swung wide, 
 And a man stood at her side ; 
 'Twas the Emperor, back again 
 From that terrible campaign. 
 Briefly then he did relate 
 The story of his army's fate, 
 And how that gallant army then 
 Was a few, brave, famished men, 
 Struggling homeward, all the way 
 Holding countless foes at bay. 
 Then he kindly soothes her fright, 
 And betakes himself, that night,
 
 64 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 To preparing for the blow 
 Which he deems his savage foe 
 Will attempt. The old and young, 
 'Round whom wives and children clung, 
 Heard the summons, and with tears 
 
 Buckled on the trusty blade, 
 Kissed dear lips with loving fears, 
 
 Lips of trusting wife and maid, 
 Then with brave hearts beating high, 
 Hastened forth unfalteringly. 
 
 And thus once more the chief of France 
 
 Against her foes makes swift advance, 
 
 Determined to oppose and fight 
 
 The front, before they all unite. 
 
 On Lutzen's plains the armies meet, 
 
 And there those raw recruits repeat 
 
 The deeds of veterans ; shot and shell, 
 
 And sabre-strokes, which on them fell, 
 
 Left those brave ranks unswerved, though deep 
 
 The awful missiles through them sweep. 
 
 'Gainst fearful odds they battle on ; 
 
 Till, lo ! the victory they have won ; 
 
 And the proud Allies turn and flee 
 
 To meet their friends dejectedly. 
 
 For Dresden now the French push on, 
 While despots' faces grow more wan. 
 They dare not meet, in hurried fight, 
 This man of such resistless might, 
 Who from his subjects, at one call, 
 Could marshal bands to meet them all.
 
 If A PO LEON BONAPARTE. 6$ 
 
 They needs must gather greater force 
 Before they prosecute their course ; 
 They needs must call into their van 
 That treacherous, vacillating man, 
 The Austrian Emperor, who could turn 
 Against his child : the world will learn 
 That kith and kin of royal blood 
 Are sought, or fought, as seemeth good. 
 
 With support like this, so strong, 
 Hesitate they now not long ; 
 And they form in kingly pride 
 Dresden's frowning walls beside 
 And before, to " fight and die " 
 Swearing, so each Frenchman lie 
 Buried 'neath the ruins there, 
 Or surrenders in despair. 
 
 Love nor courage could prevail 
 'Gainst that storm of leaden hail 
 From their swarming enemies, 
 Thick as are the sands of seas ; 
 And the bravest were dismayed 
 At the scene they then surveyed. 
 Allies of Napoleon's power 
 Coldly turned in that dark hour ; 
 And as horrors multiplied, 
 All save one forsook his side ; 
 One, the Saxon King, stood by ; 
 And together they defy 
 5
 
 66 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 England, Russia, Austria, Spain, 
 Prussia, Sweden, Denmark ; vain 
 Was human might to stand 
 'Gainst this terribly strong band. 
 Minor powers soon flock along, 
 Till Napoleon, though still strong, 
 Seems as if ordained to be 
 Completely crushed with treachery. 
 Still the soldiers, desperate, 
 Battle fiercely with their fate ; 
 Gath'ring round their chief, they swear 
 By the past all must beware ! 
 Fifty thousand anxious men 
 Clamor to be led out then, 
 Where three hundred thousand wait 
 Each French home to desolate. 
 Every soldier longs to prove 
 How devoted is his love 
 For his chief, his Emperor, 
 Forced to this unequal war. 
 
 Well such love Napoleon prized, 
 But he would not sacrifice 
 Life and limb, to nothing gain 
 Save a heap of human slain. 
 Hunted down, and caged at last, 
 
 What can love avail ? 
 Blood and want have thickened fast, 
 
 And all efforts fail 
 To beat back the countless foe, 
 Moulding France for future woe.
 
 NAPOLEON- BONAPARTE, 6/ 
 
 Marshals, soldiers, all have fought 
 With the might despair has wrought. 
 But, alas ! relentless Fate 
 Bids Napoleon 'abdicate. 
 Fortune's star has sunk, and now 
 Fortune's favorite can but bow. 
 
 Destiny has raised him high, 
 Destiny now brings him low ; 
 
 (But upon life's future sky 
 There is bent a brilliant bow \ 
 'Tis the promise of a name 
 Crowned with an immortal fame.) 
 Such the thoughts with which he strives 
 
 To endure his overthrow : 
 Throned upon a nation's love, 
 
 Still to Elba he must go, 
 And upon that lonely isle 
 Wait for Fate again to smile. 
 
 'Mid his fallen fortunes, where 
 
 Is the one should soothe his care ? 
 
 Where art thou, imperial bride, 
 As he seeks an exile's home ? 
 
 Doomed by despots, far and wide, 
 To an isle 'mid ocean's foam, 
 O'er the billows of the sea, 
 Naught to cheer, not even thee ! 
 
 Ah ! that woman for her pride 
 Should desert and leave alone 
 Him who when his life was bright, 
 She had clung to, wrong or right !
 
 68 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 But I joy to paint a scene 
 
 To redeem my sex from shame ; 
 Turn to faithful Josephine, 
 
 And with reverence speak her name. 
 Love like hers, in that dark hour, 
 
 Shone with royal purity ; 
 She had shared Napoleon's power, 
 
 She would bear his misery, 
 If no other deemed her place 
 By her lord a queenly grace. 
 Tender were her words of cheer, 
 Penned with anxious hope and fear, 
 Asking, with devotion great, 
 If she might not share his fate. 1 
 
 1 In her letter to Napoleon after his banishment to Elba, Jo 
 sephine says : " Now only can I calculate the whole extent of 
 the misfortune of having beheld my union with you dissolved 
 by law. Now do I indeed lament being no more than your 
 friend, who can but mourn over a misfortune great as it is un 
 expected. Ah, sire ! why can I not fly to you ! Why can I 
 not give you the assurance that exile has no terrors save for 
 vulgar minds ; and that, far from diminishing a sincere attach 
 ment, misfortune imparts to it a new force. I have been upon 
 the point of quitting France to follow your footsteps, and to 
 consecrate to you the remainder of an existence which you so 
 long embellished. A single motive restrains me, and that you 
 may divine. If I learn that I am the only one who will fulfill 
 her duty, nothing shall detain me, and I will go to the only 
 place where, henceforth, there can be happiness for me, since I 
 shall be able to console you when you are isolated and unfor 
 tunate. Say but the word, and I depart. Adieu, sire ! What 
 ever I would add would still be too little. It is no longer by 
 words that my sentiments for you are to be proved, and for ac 
 tions your consent is necessary."
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 69 
 
 What will not true woman bear 
 
 For the object of her love ! 
 Want, woe, wrong, and e'en despair, 
 
 Ne'er her steadfast truth can move ; 
 Thus the name of Josephine 
 Glorifies this gloomy scene. 
 
 Deep anxiety and grief 
 For the nation's chosen chief 
 (Not her husband ; she could ne'er 
 Call him now by words so dear; 
 Never call him husband ! O, 
 Heaviest weight of human woe ! 
 That another one should claim 
 That beloved, illustrious name ! 
 And should rest in bliss where she 
 Once was clasped so tenderly, 
 While the world, with harshness rife, 
 Names that woman as his wife/) 
 Soon from life gave her relief; 
 Yes, regret and gnawing pain 
 Soon made human longing vain. 
 Death advanced with rapid stride 
 To the great, good Empress' side, 
 And, in an imperious voice, 
 Called her from her brave soul's choice, 
 While the monarchs of the land 
 Knelt, and reverent, kissed her hand, 
 Listening to the words her lips 
 Breathed from out her life's eclipse 
 Fondest words those lips could say, 
 " Dear Napoleon ! Isle of Elba ! "
 
 70 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 Thus her spirit rose from this 
 To a world of perfect bliss ; 
 To a place of loftier state, 
 There her love and lord to wait; 
 There, secure from earthly strife, 
 To keep vigil o'er his life. 
 
 Poor, crushed France ! o'errun with foes, 
 Trembling, bleeding 'neath their blows, 
 Now thou mayst take thy repose. 
 Take your rest ! him you adore 
 Exiled to a distant shore ! 
 Branded tyrant, despot, all 
 To extenuate his fall! 
 Named usurper, when the voice 
 Of a mighty nation's choice 
 Raised him up, and placed him high 
 On a seat of royalty ! 
 With your homes by foes invest, 
 And your Emperor exiled, rest !
 
 CANTO THE FOURTH. 
 
 O, WAVE-WASHED Elba ! to your shore 
 
 Stout ships earth's greatest monarch bore. 
 
 A few tried friends had asked, and won, 
 
 The right to share his island home. 
 
 The people met, with outstretched hands, 
 
 Napoleon, and his faithful bands ; 
 
 For greater now he seemed to be 
 
 Thus doomed to lone captivity. 
 
 Forced by outnumbering foes, alone, 
 
 To abdicate his peerless throne, 
 
 His fame was spreading far and wide, 
 
 And praise was his on every side. 
 
 The people knew he was their friend, 
 
 And groaned at such an unjust end; 
 
 But iron despotism swayed 
 
 All Europe, and they sank dismayed. 
 
 Yet still a murmur, scarcely heard. 
 
 Among the masses ever stirred ; 
 
 Distracted Europe could not quell 
 
 The storm which gathered fast and well ; 
 
 It could not still the deep unrest 
 
 Which throbbed within the common breast ; 
 
 And thus the name of this one man, 
 
 Securely guarded o'er the sea, 
 Struck coldly to the despots' hearts 
 
 Like sound of direst prophecy.
 
 72 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 Backed by keen swords in stalwart hands, 
 They looked with terror o'er the lands, 
 And glancing o'er the Great Sea's foam, 
 They cried in fear, " Is he at home ? " 
 
 How could one man, nor troops, nor power, 
 
 Disturb so well their safest hour ? 
 
 Why should they tremble, as, alone, 
 
 Afar from France, his army, throne, 
 
 This man, though of gigantic mind, 
 
 To their decree himself resigned ? 
 
 Ah ! well they knew despotic power 
 
 Was rrampling down the mighty right ; 
 And thus they feared that, any hour, 
 
 He with the people might unite. 
 
 Prophetic fear ! when ten months fled 
 Poor France upraised her humbled head ; 
 With wild eyes wide, and pleading voice, 
 She calls, " Come back ! O chief of choice ! " 
 With throbbing heart Napoleon hears, 
 Scarce able to suppress his tears, 
 His bosom thronged with hopes and fears. 
 Not long he waits : " Forthwith," says he, 
 " I'll be upon the bounding sea ; 
 O, bonny France ! my suffering land ! 
 Thy helm of state I'll grasp in hand." 
 
 He reached his native shore ere they 
 Who feared him most his steps could stay. 
 His faithful followers were those 
 Who life with him in exile chose ;
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 73 
 
 Six hundred men, whose bravery 
 
 But equaled their fidelity; 
 
 And homeward now they followed him, 
 
 With faith which evermore survived ; 
 They landed, and with bulletins 
 
 Announced the Emperor had arrived. 
 Then everywhere throughout the land, 
 The people rose with cap in hand, 
 And smiled and shouted, wept and sung, 
 As though a jubilee 'd begun : 
 They knelt to him, they kissed his hand, 
 And wildest joy swept o'er the land ; 
 From shore to city, town to town, 
 
 He hurries on, and none oppose, 
 This, this alone proves his renown, 
 
 And stops the mouths of lying foes. 
 Whatever troops were sent to check 
 His onward march, as soon as met 
 They join and swell that mighty sea 
 Of joyful love and loyalty. 
 The brave Old Guard, the Cuirassiers, 
 Gens d'armes, and even bronzed tars, 
 The peasantry, the people all, 
 Embrace "the little Corporal." 
 Was this a monster, whose delight 
 Was seas of blood and deeds of night? 
 Was this a despot, giving naught 
 But curses as his subjects fought? 
 Was this a fiend whose courser's feet 
 Pranced firm through red blood fetlock deep? 
 Was this a man within whose breast 
 No mercy e'er was known to rest ?
 
 74 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 One who oppressed and slaughtered men 
 As Heaven held no recording pen ? 
 Alas, historians ! human fiend 
 With love like this was never screened. 
 
 They followed him with shout and song, 
 
 As, conqueror-like, he passed along ; 
 
 From Cannes to Lyons, from Grenoble, 
 
 Each rank of true hearts 'gan to double. 
 
 Decrees he issued full of pride : 
 
 " No blood must flow on either side ! " 
 
 He would not have a throne which caused 
 
 One drop of French blood to be lost. 
 
 Rejoicing Paris opened wide 
 
 Her arms, as eagerly she cried, 
 
 " O, welcome ! welcome ! father, come ! 
 
 Your children bid you welcome home ! " 
 
 They caught him in their arms, and bore 
 
 Him proudly to the palace door; 1 
 
 Fair hands flung wreaths, sweet lips breathed 
 
 song, 
 
 The crowd surged eagerly along; 
 They placed him on the throne, and then 
 Proclaimed him mightiest of men. 
 Vive 1'Empereur ! " " Vive 1'Empereur ! " 
 In thunder tones rose everywhere. 
 
 O, wondrous march ! The Bourbon King 
 Had failed like any useless thing ; 
 
 1 " The moment the carriage stopped, he was seized by those 
 next the door, borne aloft in their arms, amid deafening cheers, 
 through a dense and brilliant throng." Alison.
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 75 
 
 His friends, or those he deemed were such, 
 Had sought the man they loved so much ; 
 And thus the hope of Bourbon power, 
 The hope of kings, fell in an hour. 
 
 Triumphant march ! the world will ne'er 
 
 Behold its like again, I ween ; 
 Napoleon's rank is proven clear 
 
 By this, as yet, unrivaled scene. 
 He sat upon his throne once more, 
 And despots rose from shore to shore ; 
 They who had trod with savage pride 
 The people down, now rose and cried, 
 " It is not well j up, kings, we must 
 Crush down this tyrant to the dust ! 
 He threatens kingdoms to o'erthrow; 
 Brand him an outcast, and a foe ! 
 We must not rest until his fall, 
 So gather, gather, one and all ! " 
 
 Well may ye ask the reason why 
 All Europe doomed this man to die? 
 Alas ! he fought with all his might 
 Armed in the panoply of right ; 
 He battled for the people, they 
 Who loved such sovereigns to obey. 
 The allied powers had forced on them 
 
 The Bourbon rule, which they despise ; 
 And thus, to free themselves from it, 
 
 They welcomed any sacrifice ;
 
 76 NAPOLEOA 7 BONAPARTE, 
 
 They welcomed danger, welcomed war, 
 With their beloved Emperor. 
 
 Again, alas ! the whirr of war 
 
 Came rolling inward from afar; 
 
 Gigantic were the plans to end 
 
 The life of this, the people's friend. 
 
 The life of France and his were one, 
 
 Dethrone him, France was left undone. 
 
 Left to internal strife, without 
 
 Her greedy foes would throng about, 
 
 And, crushing her within their toils, 
 
 Would quarrel e'en about the spoils. 
 
 Yet gathered, swiftly gathered they 
 
 Whose thirst for blood no right could stay ; 
 
 Each prince, each king, with all his might 
 
 Prepared for this tremendous fight, 
 
 This trampling down of sovereign right. 
 
 Ah ! well Napoleon once had said, 
 " When all is done, and I am dead, 
 Great Britain will regret, and sigh 
 Because of Belgium's victory ; 
 That mighty northern power, the Czar, 
 Will stretch his sceptre quite too far 
 To suit her greedy, grasping mind : " 
 But then, the blind did lead the blind. 
 
 How felt Napoleon in that hour, 
 When battling Europe's banded power? 
 O, shrank not he to face, alone, 
 That awful tempest rolling near?
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 77 
 
 Not he ; he rose as he had known 
 
 No thrill, no thought of human fear, 
 And with supremest majesty 
 Bade France to form for victory. 
 The " plains of Mars " shook 'neath the feet 
 Of those who hurried him to meet. 
 Each soldier, shouting in the din, 
 Receives the eagle given to him, 
 And vows while life and strength remain 
 That symbol shall not bear a stain. 
 His chieftain's words he scarcely hears 
 Above the crashing, deafening cheers, 
 But firm he grasps, with love and pride, 
 The gift for which so soon he died. 
 
 In this ninth great coalition, 
 Bent on one tremendous mission, 
 First rose England, in the van 
 Placing every fighting man ; 
 Next came Russia, and her Czar 
 Armed his millions for the war ; 
 Sweden then joined in with those 
 Whom before she named as foes ; 
 Portugal, with coward Spain, 
 Lent her aid to crush again 
 Him whose noblest feelings made 
 Europe 'gainst him stand arrayed. 
 Prussia armed her subjects, too, 
 In the gladdened despots' view ; 
 Italy and Austria 
 Eagerly rushed to the fray,
 
 78 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 Joined with minor powers, who, weak, 
 
 Think the strongest side to seek 
 
 Is the best ; it may be so, 
 
 But my heart would whisper, no ! 
 
 France stood proudly up, alone, 
 
 To defend her crown and throne, 
 
 Nerved by him whom naught could move 
 
 Save his faithful subjects' love. 
 
 Grandly then, amid the gloom 
 
 (Deep as that which shrouds a tomb), 
 
 Which each moment deeper grew, 
 Towered the Statesman, who foresaw 
 That the nation needed law, 
 
 And while forming armies, drew 
 
 Master-statutes, just and new ; 
 Laws which startled with their force 
 Those who watched his wondrous course. 1 
 Yet, despite this weight of care, 
 Lo ! he found time to repair 
 To the lovely, hallowed scene, 
 Where, agone, with Josephine, 
 He had passed the hours most sweet 
 Of a life with good replete. 
 There we find the warrior, man, 
 
 Filled with loving tenderness, 
 Which, in all his after life, 
 
 Dark with ills, was never less. 
 There he scrupled not to shed 
 Bitter tears above his dead. 
 
 1 Said Madame de Stael of the additional acts to the Consti 
 tution of the State : "They are all that is wanted for France."
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 79 
 
 Aye, his very soul did melt 
 As upon each spot he dwelt, 
 Calling up from out the past 
 Her who loved him to the last ; 
 Grieving o'er each look and tone 
 Which forevermore had flown. 
 Fame is e'en a mighty thing, 
 But 'tis love doth crown man king ; 
 And Napoleon, greatest seen, 
 Was when mourning Josephine. 
 Emperor, statesman, warrior, man, 
 To admire, refuse, who can ? 
 Mighty Emperor, statesman deep, 
 Warrior great, yet man to weep 1 
 Tender memories thrilling him, 
 Forth he goes amid the din. 
 Up his army sprang, as he 
 Were a very deity ; 
 And again, as oft before, 
 Home was midst the battle's roar. 
 
 Scanty were his bands to meet 
 Those who fought for his defeat ; 
 A million foes, with awful strides, 
 Were 'circling France on all her sides ; 
 And each soldier knew full well 
 Shot and sabre-stroke must tell ; 
 They must gain by zealousness 
 What they lacked in numbers less. 
 So they forward press to close 
 With the foremost of their foes, 
 Hoping, by determined blows
 
 8O NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 Quick and strong, to break the band 
 Gathering nearest at their hand. 
 
 Ah ! Napoleon was aware, 
 Should his army be laid bare 
 To the millions all united, 
 That his hopes were surely blighted. 
 Thus he would attack the front, 
 As had often been his wont, 
 Then, before surprise subsided, 
 Other bands, as yet divided, 
 Would be left to him a prey, 
 Which he soon could sweep away. 
 
 What a scene ! From every quarter, 
 Troops are marching to the slaughter; 
 O'er the land in clouds they sweep, 
 
 Round the forest, back, and through, 
 Marshaling where the sunbeams creep 
 
 Slanting over Waterloo ; 
 There they halt, and wait their doom 
 In the most tempestuous gloom. 
 
 Out amid a storm of rain, 
 As unknowing human pain, 
 Or fatigue, or aught but will, 
 
 Does Napoleon pace the ground 
 By a lantern's light, until 
 
 All his troops are stationed 'round, 
 There to wait, in darkest night, 
 For the coming morning's light, 
 And the great decisive fight.
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 8 1 
 
 WATERLOO. 
 
 A Sabbath morning rose with gloom and mist, 
 And clouds above, and miry earth beneath ; 
 
 And Nature looked as though she ne'er was kissed 
 By aught of loveliness, but only grief. 
 
 O'er all the ground was spread the human grist, 
 Which Mars had gathered from the world's great 
 sheaf, 
 
 And which, within that awful, fated day, 
 
 Was to be ground, and thrown, as chaff, away. 
 
 Upon a gentle rise of trampled ground 
 
 The English force was placed. A forest dense 
 
 Lay back behind, which echoed to the sound 
 Of clanging drum, and all the roar intense 
 
 Which rose and rolled up to the blue profound, 
 And throbbed and thrilled along man's inner 
 sense, 
 
 Jarring and quivering through his soul's repose, 
 
 And drowning thought of battle's many woes. 
 
 Upon another rise, and parallel, 
 
 The French were posted, cannon-shot from foe ; 
 Each had position chosen wondrous well 
 
 That each might feel the other's crashing blow ; 
 And very soon and very fast it fell, 
 
 The which so many heroes sank below. 
 Ere long the clouds left unobscured the sun, 
 As God moved them to see what there was done. 
 6
 
 82 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 O'er what was seen the angels well may weep, 
 Since even man cannot withhold a tear ; 
 
 In solid masses posted firm and deep, 
 
 Unflinching, stern, and knowing naught of fear, 
 
 The French are formed. They deem the price is 
 
 cheap 
 
 If with their lives they save sweet France, so 
 dear 
 
 That every drop of blood, like incense given, 
 
 Doth plead their pardon at the bar of Heaven. 
 
 At 'leven o'clock the carnage fierce begun : 
 
 The French dashed headlong on the rock-firm 
 
 foe; 
 
 Up rose the smoke, which soon obscured the sun, 
 And wrapped in gloom the charging hosts be 
 low, 
 Who, long before that sultry day was done, 
 
 Lay down to sleep the sleep that all must 
 
 know ; 
 
 While with wild charges, thunder, rattle, roar, 
 Battalions dashed like waves against a shore, 
 
 And batteries belched, and shells, exploding, 
 
 shrieked, 
 And still those men charged to the cannon's 
 
 mouth, 
 While blood outpoured, and, red and horrid, 
 
 streaked 
 
 The plains from East to West, from North to 
 South ;
 
 i 
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 83 
 
 And sabres, swinging high above all, reeked 
 
 And dripped as rain arresting summer's drouth ; 
 Rider and horse, while clanging drum and fife 
 Beat on the charge, impetuous, sought the strife. 
 
 The Iron Duke stood on a rise of ground 
 
 And watched the movements of the mighty host ; 
 
 To him the roar of battle was the sound 
 Familiar to his ear, and loved the most; 
 
 Yet sad his heart, as now he gazed around, 
 
 Lest that the hard fought field at last were 
 lost ; 
 
 So murmured he, with eyes upon the sun, 
 
 " 1 would to God that night or Blucher 'd come 1 " 
 
 And Blucher came, and the exhausted band 
 
 Of brave, proud Frenchmen, who, with flashing 
 eye, 
 
 Behold the Prussians spread out fresh and grand 
 O'er the green slope, believe them Destiny. 
 
 They glance beneath their comrades pile the 
 
 land 
 Then to their Emperor, and resolve to die: 
 
 He sits there calm, and counting every chance 
 
 Which now is left to save the life of France. 
 
 Few, O, how few ! and yet no sign of fear 
 Is seen to glance across his sallow cheek; 
 
 Along the line there rose a thrilling cheer 
 As he surveyed their ranks, now thinned and 
 weak ;
 
 I 
 84 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 Yet lips were firm, and eyes were flashing clear, 
 As if to say, The Old Guard now must speak ! 
 They stood aloof with bosoms beating high, 
 They ne'er had moved but 'twas to victory. 
 
 In solid masses, firm, and fierce, and deep, 
 They form behind impetuous Marshal Ney ; 
 
 Then quick, with savage vengeance, on they sweep 
 O'er piles of dead which block their awful way. 
 
 All sounds, as in expectant stillness, sleep, 
 As every eye turns on that grand array 
 
 Of fearless men, who march through seas of gore, 
 
 The cannon, loaded muzzle-deep, before. 
 
 On, on they strode ; the British lines were still ; 
 
 A stifling silence tells the awe of all 
 As down the slope, and up the other hill, 
 
 They sternly go, to conquer, or to fall. 
 There was a moment's agitating thrill ; 
 
 Then sped from every gun a flame-red pall, 
 And in the gaps those raking missiles tore 
 Unnumbered heroes fall, to rise no more. 
 
 They closed their ranks, and shouting, "Vive la 
 
 France ! " 
 
 With look of awful grandeur strode ahead, 
 Till lost unto Napoleon's anxious gaze, 
 
 They pierced the British line with shattered 
 
 head. 
 Alas for Justice ! this, her only chance, 
 
 Is lost for aye : the grand Old Guard is dead !
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 85 
 
 It sank in blood as Blucher's army came 
 With shouts exultant through the sea of flame. 
 
 Who can paint, in colors true, 
 
 That unparalleled retreat 
 From the world-famed Waterloo? 
 Struggling bands of weary men 
 
 Sabered by pursuing foe,. 
 Muttering curses of revenge 
 
 As they sink beneath the blow; 
 Wounded horses rearing high, 
 Wounded men crawled off to die, 
 Bleeding squadrons rushing by 
 
 Wreck and ruin all complete. 
 Of the Old Guard there is left 
 
 Just a remnant ; in the rear 
 They protect the fugitives, 
 
 And their worshipped Emperor. 
 They had seen their comrades go 
 For that charge upon the foe ; 
 They beheld their fall, and swore 
 That for this rich blood should pour ; 
 And when Blucher's savage men 
 To the last had driven them, 
 Like caged lions, fierce and hard, 
 Fought this gallant, glorious Guard ; 
 'Till their very foes, admiring, 
 For a moment ceased their firing, 
 Offering, instead of slaughter, 
 To give honorable quarter. 
 Flashed each eye with royal fire, 
 Raised each arm a trifle higher,
 
 86 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 Spoke these bleeding, brave defenders : 
 " 27te Guard dies, but ne'er surrenders /" 
 Then they plunge with savage pride 
 At their foes on every side. 
 'Twas enough ; one volley more 
 
 And they all were swept away, 
 And their chieftain, far before, 
 
 Gallops on his weary way, 
 Reaching Paris in the gloom 
 Of those awful days of doom. 
 Tumult now was everywhere, 
 Hands were red, and arms were bare, 
 Factions formed in every square. 
 The Chamber of the Deputies 
 Was perplexed with many fears : 
 Many said the Allies fought 
 
 Only 'gainst Napoleon, 
 And if he would abdicate, 
 
 Peace could easily be won. 
 This they said in fierce debate ; 
 But the loving people cried 
 Lustily on every side : 
 " Give us our arms ! our chieftain give ! 
 And France in spite of all shall live ! " 
 Napoleon, pressed by adverse fate, 
 Deemed it wise to abdicate. 
 United^ France could stem the tide, 
 But nations fall when they divide. 
 
 Napoleon, citizen of France, 
 Beholds his country's foes advance ;
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 8/ 
 
 He has resigned his throne, yet they 
 Now make the insolent demand 
 That he shall ' leave his native land, 
 
 The war will cease with him away. 
 But whither can Napoleon go? 
 
 His land is full of enemies, 
 
 And hostile foes are on the seas, 
 Rejoicing at his overthrow. 
 Ah, whither? with an eagle eye 
 He scans the scene then sorrowfully, 
 With royal pride and courtesy, 
 Seeks England's hospitality. 
 
 Then that whole great people rose, 
 And with homage, deep and true, 
 
 Welcomed their illustrious guest ; 
 Well, aye, very well, they knew 
 
 That he was their friend ; the best 
 
 That the people ever won 
 
 Anywhere beneath the sun. 
 
 Loud they shouted, long they sang, 
 
 Till the earth and heavens rang, 
 
 And the British ministry 
 
 Began to look uneasily 
 
 At such joyful demonstrations 
 
 Toward " the scourger of the nations ; " 
 
 Then, ere long (I write with shame), 
 
 They malign his spotless name, 
 
 And in conclave called, agree 
 
 That a bare isle in the sea, 
 
 Far away in torrid zone, 
 
 Shall be given for his throne.
 
 88 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 Wrong, unfit for heathen ages, 
 Thou art stamped on history's pages ! 
 And so lo'ng as mind shall know 
 Right from wrong, or joy from woe, 
 Will it brand, with direst shame, 
 England's haught, 1 historic name. 
 
 So the British ministry 
 Sent him off across the sea. 
 The Northumberland, 
 Stanch and stout to ride the wave, 
 Bore him to his island grave. 
 
 Many begged his lot to share ; 
 But a little band, 
 
 Only, were allowed to care 
 
 For him, when, in deep despair, 
 And with tearful eyes, he gave 
 
 His last lingering look to France, 
 Sadly shouting o'er the wave, 
 " Farewell, France ! land of the brave ! " 
 
 Then her hills, lost to his glance, 
 Sank amid the ocean's foam, 
 And he had nor land nor home. 
 
 Far away 'neath torrid skies 
 St. Helena's bleak rocks rise ; 
 Breezes from hot Afric's sand 
 Lash the waves upon its strand ; 
 Westward, waters infinite 
 Stretch away beyond the sight. 
 1 " Away, haught man ; thou art insulting me." 
 
 SHAKESPEARE.
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 89 
 
 Bold and black against the sky 
 Loomed before Napoleon's eye, 
 This his prison rock, where he, 
 As a captive, left the sea ; 
 And within a low hut, where 
 There was lack of e'en pure air, 
 With his friends, the monarch saw 
 England's famous love of law (!) 
 
 Torn from France, the army, home, 
 There he was, and there, alone, 
 Did he bear with England's hate, 
 Which not yet had made his fate 
 
 Sad and hard enough. 
 Dreary to him was each day, 
 
 Dogged about by British sentry, 
 As he watched the ocean's spray. 
 
 "General Bonaparte must be 
 Kept in sight," despatches say, 
 Lest on some propitious day 
 He launch out, in some frail skiff, 
 From some cove, hid by high cliff, 
 Over ocean, seeking for 
 More of fame, and more of war. 
 Poor, poor fools ! he knew too well 
 
 Ocean's waves were rough ; 
 And it needed none to tell 
 That all Europe banded so 
 For his final overthrow. 
 
 Very soon that rock became 
 Crowned with vast, undying fame ;
 
 90 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 The whole world was turned to see 
 Napoleon in captivity. 
 Monarch was he still, as grand 
 As when, hearing his command, 
 Armies rose, and kingdoms fell 
 As beneath some fatal spell. 
 But slowly passed his life away, 
 
 Filled with utter dreariness ; 
 Heavy grew each sultry day, 
 
 Bringing with it naught to bless 
 
 Save the constant tenderness 
 Of the friends who sought to be 
 Comfort in his misery. 
 Death was gaining in the race ; 
 
 All the signs were visible 
 In the exiled monarch's face 
 
 Torture did its mission well. 
 Five long, dreary, painful years 
 
 Had on lagging wings gone by, 
 Since, engulfed in blood and tears, 
 
 France had met his anxious eye. 
 Five long years, in restless pain, 
 
 He had borne captivity ; 
 In the sixth year Azrael came 
 
 And announced his liberty. 
 
 DEATH OF NAPOLEON. 
 
 The night was wild, and the winds were high, 
 And black clouds scud o ? er a blacker sky ; 
 And a flood of beating, blinding rain 
 Swept o'er that rock in a hurricane.
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 91 
 
 Loud bellowed the thunder, crash upon crash, 
 
 And the night was lit with the lightning's flash ; 
 
 And the waves on -the rocky shore broke high, 
 
 With a mournful dash and a plaintive cry, 
 
 Wildly and weirdly, and fit to be 
 
 The last sad wail of a soul set free. 
 
 Unknowing it all, the Emperor lay 
 
 Dreaming of things that were far away ; 
 
 His lofty brow was as lofty still 
 
 As when empires bent beneath his will ; 
 
 Nature had stamped on that forehead high 
 
 The gift of her own grand royalty. 
 
 'Round the dying man were grouped a few 
 
 To watch as he slowly struggled through 
 
 The " river of death," the winds outside 
 
 A requiem fit for the scene inside. 
 
 But he did not hear the storm without, 
 
 He heard but the wilder battle shout ; 
 
 Again he charged on the flying foe 
 
 O'er the trampled plains of Marengo ; 
 
 Again he shouted in accents clear, 
 
 " Forward ! retreat not when I am here ! " 
 
 And then he looks on a sweeter scene 
 
 And tenderly murmurs of Josephine. 
 
 At last, through the gloom of that awful night 
 
 The soul of Napoleon took its flight ; 
 
 A fitting close to his life's wild scene 
 
 Were his last words, " Army ! France ! Josephine ! " 
 
 Marble, majestic, his friends scarce knew 
 
 The stormy journey at last was through.
 
 92 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 They shrouded him then, as, dressed in life, 
 He had rode through the battle's fiercest strife : 
 O, royal dress ! O, mournful fate ! 
 O, sequel grand for a life so great! 
 
 They buried him there on that dreary rock, 
 And Tyranny rose with a terrible shock ; 
 For when he sank to his lonesome grave 
 There were sobs from the hearts of millions brave ; 
 Kingdoms were shaken with unfeigned woe 
 He was Emperor still, though he slept so low ; 
 Emperor yet, though a nameless stone 
 Covered the exile from land and throne ; 
 And Helena was spoke as a sacred name 
 The burial place of a man of fame. 
 
 England now had done her worst; 
 She who will forever boast 
 Of her laws, her truth, her right, 
 Had disgraced her sceptre quite, 
 And had made her name accursed. 
 Never will her proud sons hear 
 
 St. Helena without shame ; 
 Never can she hope to clear 
 
 From her honor that foul stain. 
 Yet she could not crush him down 
 Though she robbed him of his crown, 
 For his fame is spreading wide, 
 And his name is glorified. 
 
 Nineteen years the hero slept 
 On that rock by ocean swept.
 
 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 93 
 
 Nineteen years ! and then the land 
 Rose with exultation grand, 
 And united, all as one, 
 Cried aloud, " Give us Napoleon ! " 
 Filled with mingled joy and grief 
 Welcomed they their slumbering chief. 
 Cannon thundered as 'twas wont 
 When he dashed to battle's front; 
 Music wailed, and banners swung 
 Over flowers by fair hands flung ; 
 Trembled all the air with song, 
 As the cortege moved along ; 
 Lofty arches, statues proud, 
 'Long the pathway rose and bowed. 
 Bayonets were flashing bright, 
 As when ere some coming fight, 
 He had scanned, with practiced eye, 
 Their unspotted brilliancy ; 
 Veteran eyes were dim with tears, 
 And the thunderous, thrilling cheers 
 Told full well the nation's gladness, 
 Mingled with peculiar sadness. 
 In this royal state, and drawn 
 By superbest coursers, on 
 Passed the last remains of him 
 Who was deaf to all this din. 
 Could his spirit, looking down, 
 Glory in this great renown? 
 Saw he not his welcome home 
 To the army, people, throne ? 
 Ah ! I know not ; I can tell
 
 94 NAPOLEON BONAPARTE. 
 
 Only of these mortal scenes ; 
 Something, which perhaps is well, 
 
 'Tween the two worlds intervenes. 
 Only can I know, at last 
 
 Proudly does his dust repose 
 Where his glorious life was passed 
 Now secure from all his foes. 
 Only can I know yon shaft * 
 
 Rising upward, rears his form, 
 Lifelike, clear, and towering high, 
 
 Kissed by sun, unshook by storm, 
 And his fame, o'er every sea, 
 Is increasing steadily. 
 Rest, Napoleon ! grandest man 
 In the great Almighty's plan. 
 Few now wonder where thou'st trod, 
 Thou art thought almost a god. 2 
 
 1 The column of the Grand Army in the Place Vendome 
 which has since been torn down by the Commune. 
 
 2 " Napoleon was the greatest of the creations of God." 
 
 LAMARTINE.
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 "O, PLEASANT it is for the heart 
 To gather up itself apart 
 To think its own thoughts, and to be 
 Free as none ever yet were free, 
 When, prisoners to their gilded thrall, 
 Vain crowd meets crowd in lighted hall, 
 With frozen feelings, tutored eye, 
 And a smile which is itself a lie." 
 
 From tfo "Lost Pleiad." 
 
 "The fiery-footed barb 
 That pounds the pampas, and the lily bells 
 That hang above the brooks, present the world 
 With no apology for being there, 
 And no attempt to justify themselves 
 In uselessness. It is enough for God 
 That they are beautiful and hold his thought 
 In fine embodiment ; and it shall be 
 Enough for me that, in this book of mine, 
 I have created somewhat that is strong 
 And beautiful, which, if it profit well I 
 If not, 'tis no less strong and beautiful, 
 And holds its being by no feebler right." 
 
 From " Kathrina"
 
 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 MY LIFE-BATTLE. 
 
 SHALL I yield up the battle of life in despair, 
 That the mountainous billows of sorrow surge 
 
 o'er me ? 
 
 Shall I close my heart's portals to everything fair, 
 And live in the gloom that alone seems before 
 me ? 
 
 Shall I yield to the weight of the burden I bear? 
 
 Shall I say to the world, I am weak, I am 
 
 weary? 
 Shall the silver creep into the brown of my hair 
 
 Because my sad life has grown utterly dreary ? 
 
 Shall I fold my hands idly, nor toil any more? 
 Are there not some others who struggle with 
 
 sorrow ? 
 Though the path may be rough, and thy feet may 
 
 be sore, 
 
 May not there be glory and gladness to-morrow ? 
 7
 
 MY LAND IDEAL. 
 
 I STOOD in the city, musing, 
 
 In the whirr of the busy street ; 
 My eyes were on pictures gazing, 
 
 My thoughts were on you, my sweet. 
 Aye, riotous tides of feeling 
 
 Ran over the barrier, pride ; 
 All things grew dim in my vision, 
 
 E'en they who stood by my side. 
 
 Far away to a glorious region, 
 
 From the traffic of soul and sense, 
 I had fled, with a grievous longing 
 
 For something like recompense : 
 Some subtle, sweet thrill of gladness, 
 
 Some passionate clasp of hands, 
 Which should gather me up and place me 
 
 The foremost in all the lands. 
 
 I longed for the tender tokens 
 
 Of a heart which was all my own ; 
 Mine blossomed like roses in summer, 
 
 Yet I stood in the streets alone. 
 Fair landscapes rose up before me 
 
 Through the gleam of a silver mist, 
 With lilies that paled and quivered 
 
 By the breath of the morning kissed.
 
 MY LAND IDEAL. 99 
 
 O, the dreamy delight that thrilled me 
 
 In the hum of the busy street ! 
 I was roaming away in vision, 
 
 With my hand in yours, my sweet. 
 You will stay in my land ideal, 
 
 You will dream with me dreams, and see 
 How the rosy tints of affection 
 
 Will color my destiny.
 
 A LOVER'S RHAPSODIES. 
 
 I KNOW a little girl, she is very fair to see ; 
 There may be others fairer, but she seemeth best 
 
 to me ; 
 
 For her dainty little feet, as they trip along my way, 
 Have a grace that does not vanish in the common 
 
 work of day. 
 
 Her brow is white enough, and her bonny shining 
 
 hair 
 
 Is parted smooth above it with just enough of care ; 
 Some poets call it golden ; it may or may not be, 
 But I'm sure 'tis very pretty when she dresses it 
 
 for me. 
 
 This little girl has eyes of the deepest, darkest blue, 
 But they sometimes speak a language that cannot 
 
 be known to you ; 
 Perhaps there may be others that employ this 
 
 cunning art, 
 But these alone have power to search deep into 
 
 my heart. 
 
 My little girl has teeth of the dazzling hue of snow, 
 And enough of healthful knowledge to keep them 
 always so;
 
 A LOVER'S RHAPSODIES. IOI 
 
 Her cheeks are beds of roses where dimples hide 
 
 and seek, 
 And blushes glimmer faintly when I dare my love 
 
 to speak. 
 
 My little girl has hands that are quite as soft and 
 
 white 
 As the drifts of snow that gather at my door-stone 
 
 in the night; 
 But when I clasp the fingers, as they flutter to 
 
 and fro, 
 I find them warm and human, which cannot be 
 
 said of snow. 
 
 My little girl is pure as the lily when it blows, 
 
 And the dallying winds deal gently with her bo 
 som's spotless snows ; 
 
 But they cannot be more gentle than the arms 
 that have embraced 
 
 With a lover's tender passion the ungirded little 
 waist. 
 
 My little girl has lips that are ruby red, and sweet : 
 When I kiss them in the twilight my bliss is quite 
 
 complete ; 
 For then this little fairy, who has seemed to need 
 
 no rest, 
 Seeks the shelter of my arms and nestles on my 
 
 breast.
 
 LOVE VERSUS GOLD. 
 
 UNBIND the braids of my hair, sweet friend, 
 
 For my heart is sick and sore ; 
 And I fain would take from my weary form 
 
 The things that to-night I wore. 
 For I cannot, sweet friend, I cannot bear 
 The weight of these flowers upon my hair ; 
 For their rich perfume but brings to me 
 Strange thoughts of the night's wild revelry. 
 
 And undo this silken dress, sweet friend, 
 
 I hate each gleaming fold ; 
 For I cannot bear to think, sweet friend, 
 
 That to-night I bowed to gold. 
 That the flowers which shone in my hair to-night 
 Have brought to my soul a withering blight ; 
 The hand which has lain in a dearer one 
 Was given to-night and my soul 's undone. 
 
 Did you hear the music sob, sweet friend, 
 
 And the sound upon the floor? 
 The light of the lamps was a terrible thing 
 
 And my age is scarce a score. 
 There were regal heads, there were brows of snow, 
 There were lips that would rival the ruby's glow ;
 
 LOVE VERSUS GOLD. 1 03 
 
 And the lips of one, with a regal head, 
 As he bowed to me in the past, had said : 
 
 " Come out where the flowers are damp, dear love, 
 
 With the dew that 's falling now, 
 And lend for a while your pearly ear, 
 
 And list to my solemn vow. 
 O, queen of my heart ! the glittering light 
 Of your eyes has made me your slave to-night ; " 
 And, bending his knee, "I love you so, 
 O, queen of my soul, do not bid me go ! " 
 
 My heart stood still as I heard, sweet friend, 
 
 For I knew it could not be ; 
 For wealth was the thing I craved, sweet friend, 
 
 And, ah, he had none for me ! 
 And I told him this while my head drooped low, 
 And my cheek grew white with my heart's wild 
 
 woe ; ' 
 
 I gave him my heart, but I kept my hand, 
 And now I'm the saddest in all the land. 
 
 I cannot forget his face, sweet friend, 
 
 Though the years should come and go ; 
 And though I am proud and cold, sweet friend, 
 
 I love him, I love him so ! 
 As the music rang through the lighted room 
 It seemed to me like the knell of doom, 
 For to-morrow I wed with a man I know 
 I never can love and I love him so.
 
 IO4 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 So loosen my braided hair, sweet friend, 
 
 Perhaps 'twill ease this pain ; 
 And lay these mocking pearls aside 
 
 For the day that will come again ; 
 Then darken the room, for I hate the light, 
 And tell me, O, tell me that I am right ! 
 But none of the careless crowd must know 
 That I wed for gold, with a heart of woe.
 
 HEREAFTER. 
 
 IT may be that in the realms of bliss 
 
 We shall be once more united ; 
 That for the sorrow and doubt of this 
 
 The face of the future is lighted. 
 It may be that where the angels are, 
 
 And their hymns of joy are chanted, 
 We shall each be crowned with a glorious star, 
 
 And the prayer of our souls be granted. 
 
 I think, sometimes, as we kneel at night, 
 
 With the holy hush around us, 
 That the darkness and gloom are growing bright, 
 
 And the chain is snapped that bound us. 
 There are miles of river, and lake, and plain, 
 
 Stretched far and wide between us, 
 But all the torture, and all the pain, 
 
 Of this parting will not demean us. 
 
 For, by and by, when each soul is freed 
 
 From this cumbrous earthly prison, 
 The thirst will be quenched, and every need 
 
 Will be fed in a field Elysian ; 
 And the gloom which now o'er our pathway lies 
 
 Will be turned to a gleam of glory, 
 And up in the beautiful, dark blue skies, 
 
 'Twill be as an old, old story.
 
 IO6 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 So let each work with a brave, strong heart, 
 
 And banish all small repining ; 
 Though fate has thrown us so far apart 
 
 My soul is your life divining. 
 There 's another life than the one now ours, 
 
 Which waits for the grand endeavor ; 
 Upheld through this by the unseen powers, 
 
 There, there we shall love forever.
 
 MAXIMILIAN. 
 
 UNLUCKY scion of nobility ! 
 
 What stern decree of God has brought thee low, 
 And laid thy head with other men's ? Just God ! 
 How power, magnificence, and pride have bowed 
 To Mexico's imperial edict. 
 Eagerly thou didst assume the kingly 
 Purple, and grasp a usurped sceptre's gold. 
 Strong hands, stout hearts, a nation's right op 
 posed, 
 
 And lo ! with bristling walls of steel the hosts 
 Of bannered France were met, and blood, rich 
 
 blood, 
 
 Flowed o'er the fair green soil in lavish tides. 
 The cannon which announced thy squadron's 
 
 charge 
 
 Seemed but an echo of the roar which had 
 Convulsed our States. Its sullen music died 
 At last away, but still the thunders shook 
 Thy borders, and strife and ruin held high 
 Carnival. Brave men, on either side, have 
 Fought with valor scarce e'er equaled. Kings' 
 
 pride, 
 
 The strongest pride of old imperial France, 
 Sent an unlucky prince across the waves 
 To crown himself with an inglorious
 
 IO8 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Death, and be, in after time, applauded. 
 Poor prince ! the cause you dared sustain some 
 time 
 
 Will fade in smoke and shadow. Freedom, then, 
 Will gild with just as gorgeous rays the skies 
 Of disunited Mexico, as now 
 
 She pours her light throughout our own fair land, 
 And millions, chanting liberty, will sigh 
 When Maximilian's name is heard.
 
 "LOVE IN A COTTAGE." 
 
 A DEAR little cottage under the trees, 
 
 Cozily nestled, snug and white ; 
 Roses clambering over the porch, 
 
 A leafy veil 'gainst the yellow light. 
 Breezes wandering in and out 
 
 Shaking the curtain's snow-white fold ; 
 Sunshine flickering on the floor, 
 
 Quivering there like a shower of gold. 
 
 Snowy cloth on the table spread, 
 
 Supper waiting the absent one, 
 Loving wife with the nut-brown hair 
 
 Anxiously watching the set of sun. 
 Tea-kettle singing with louder tone, 
 
 Sunshine slanting the carpet o'er, 
 Girlish wife with a beaming face 
 
 Going oft to the cottage door. 
 
 Click of the gate in the sun's last rays ; 
 
 Wife with a hasty step to meet, 
 Bounding over the greensward path, 
 
 The weary husband to kindly greet. 
 A cheering smile, and a fond caress, 
 
 She leads him into their pretty home,
 
 I IO MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The kiss on his lips, and the waiting meal, 
 Proving the words, " I'm glad you've come ! " 
 
 The deepening shadows fall one by one, 
 And there they sit clasped hand in hand, 
 
 The brave young husband, the fair young wife, - 
 A home of love in a far-off land.
 
 VENICE, ITALY. 1866. 
 
 " BEAUTIFUL Venice ! the bride of the sea ! " 
 
 Crown of the Italy yet to be ! 
 
 Lo ! we are praising thee over the sea, 
 
 Gloria! Gloria! 
 
 We too have breasted the brunt of a war, 
 Lo ! we have lost not a Stripe or a Star ! 
 Venice knows well what the battle was for, 
 
 Gloria ! Gloria ! 
 
 Fling out your banners, O nation new born, 
 Liberty now is not sitting forlorn, 
 Free as the winds on the wings of the morn, 
 
 Gloria! Gloria! 
 
 God is upheaving the ages to-day, 
 Learning the people to work and to pray, 
 Splendor gleams out from the dark clouds of gray, 
 
 Gloria! Gloria! 
 
 Venice, O Venice ! thou city of song ! 
 Under thy fetters thou'st groveled too long, 
 Beautiful then, but now splendidly strong, 
 
 Gloria ! Gloria !
 
 112 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Welcome your hero with thunderous cheers, 
 Load him with flowers begemmed with glad tears, 
 Trumpet his fame through the swift-coming years, 
 
 Garibaldi ! 
 
 Write down his deeds in letters of flame, 
 Write down your king's by the side of the same 
 Beautiful land with a beautiful name 
 
 Italy ! Italy ! 
 
 Lo! we cross hands with you over the sea; 
 Sing us, Italia, the songs of the free, 
 Both kneeling low to a crowned Liberty 
 
 Gloria ! Gloria ! 
 
 O, ye have crowned her as Victor by name, 
 We, as a people, are crowned all the same ; 
 Both have baptized her in blood and in flame, 
 
 Liberty ! Liberty ! 
 
 Venice, O city of art and of pride, 
 Wedded to ocean, a glorious bride ! 
 Despots shall tremble as we, side by side, 
 Breast the bold billows of Tyranny's tide, 
 
 Columbia ! Italy !
 
 MEMORY'S HOPE. 
 
 I'VE dwelt amid the eastern hills, 
 
 I've seen the sunset's glow, 
 Like billows of a crimson sea, 
 
 Come trembling to and fro, 
 I've seen the forest's stalwart pride 
 
 Bend to the tempest's blow, 
 Or rear majestically aloft 
 
 Enwreathed with ice and snow : 
 But this was in the sunny past, 
 
 Alas ! 'twas long ago. 
 
 I've listened to the wandering breeze 
 
 Among the dark green leaves ; 
 I've seen the lake's blue billows roll 
 
 When wild unrest upheaves. 
 I've watched the lazy flight of hours 
 
 From many a sunny hill ; 
 I've heard the thunder shake the air 
 
 As God's almighty will : 
 An eastern sky bent o'er me then, 
 
 Alas ! it does not still. 
 
 I've seen the circling mountain tops 
 Stretch upward to the sky, 
 
 And Day, begirt with royalty, 
 Set on their heights and die. 
 8
 
 114 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 I've seen the moonlight, soft and bright, 
 Bathe many a towering dome 
 
 With lustre all as fair, I ween, 
 As that which falls on Rome ; 
 
 For, ah ! its tender radiance fell 
 Around the scenes of home. 
 
 And I have watched the crimson light 
 
 Of day's decaying pride 
 With oriental grandeur fall 
 
 Across the prairies wide ; 
 And I have seen the gorgeous flowers 
 
 Which dot those prairies o'er, 
 As if they might be angels' tracks 
 
 They having passed before : 
 That was a dream of early days, 
 
 I dream it now no more. 
 
 I've seen the tempest's awful power, 
 
 Encrowned with wreathing flame, 
 Stoop low to shuddering earth, till we, 
 
 As instinct, breathe God's name ; 
 But, O ! 'twas then my restless soul 
 
 Exulted in the strife, 
 And all its passions, fierce and high, 
 
 Waked into sudden life : 
 O, western thunder-storms, ye are 
 
 With awful grandeur rife ! 
 
 And I have seen the sunshine fall, 
 Like benediction fond,
 
 MEMORY'S HOPE. 115 
 
 On many a scene surpassing fair : 
 
 Tis then that the Beyond, 
 The shadowy, distant, great Unknown 
 
 Seems questioning my soul, 
 And o'er the harp strings of my life 
 
 A flood of feelings roll, 
 Yet waking not one strain of bliss 
 
 Within my bitter soul. 
 
 O, when I watch the ocean wave 
 
 That laves a foreign shore, 
 Exulting, I will smile at fate, 
 
 And dream of this no more. 
 The dark blue skies that arch afar, 
 
 The slumberous winds that stir 
 In scented groves across the sea 
 
 Shall cheer their worshipper, 
 And memory then will softly sigh 
 
 Above the days that were.
 
 THE KINGDOM OF LOVE. 
 
 THE world it may crown me with laurel, 
 
 It may lift up my name to the skies, 
 But praise which alone I e'er covet 
 
 I shall find in the depths of your eyes. 
 The roar of the millions applauding 
 
 Could not reach to the deeps of my heart, 
 And you since the day of my giving, 
 
 Have been of my being a part. 
 
 No queen whom the kingdom is crowning 
 
 Ever thrilled with such royal delight, 
 As I when you clasped me and praised me 
 
 In the flush of the morn's rosy light. 
 'Twas that which my soul had been craving, 
 
 What I wrought for and hoped for so long, 
 And the touch of your lips in the twilight 
 
 Itself was the birth of a song. 
 
 The rose as it bends to the whisper 
 
 Of the breeze when it sweeps to the sea, 
 Ne'er flushes with purer emotion 
 
 Than my cheek when I listen to thee. 
 The lake when it heaves its blue bosom 
 
 To the queen of the night in the skies, 
 Thrills not in its innermost being 
 
 As I 'neath a glance from your eyes.
 
 THE KINGDOM OF LOVE. 1 1/ 
 
 The world then may crown me with laurel, 
 
 Or refuse to give ear to my lays, 
 My world is the heart that I covet, 
 
 And my glory the words of its praise. 
 I'm queen of a realm of the spirit, 
 
 And the tributes this kingdom shall bring, 
 With tenderest care I will treasure 
 
 And lay at the feet of my king.
 
 CHRISTMAS. 
 
 MERRILY, merrily trip the feet 
 Of the dancers in the hall, my sweet, 
 Merrily now to the music's tone, 
 O, the gathered crowd and I alone. 
 
 O, Christmas Eve ! with your holy sky, 
 Do you hear the laugh, or heed the sigh ? 
 Does the music's mirth accord with thee 
 And the Christ that trod old Galilee? 
 
 How calm the sky, and how sweet the night 1 
 But there 's something in my heart not right, 
 For the bounding pulse, the lip of flame, 
 Have not been caught from the Saviour's name. 
 
 Merrily, merrily through the hall 
 
 The feet of the dancers now do fall : 
 
 And I thought to make my heart so gay I 
 To drive the sadness and doubt away. 
 
 Merrily now ! O revelers, there, 
 
 Bow with me at a solemn prayer; 
 Yea, worship Jesus, the star that rose 
 And shone o'er Bethlehem's brilliant snows.
 
 CHRISTMAS. 
 
 Music and mirth, and a goodly crowd, 
 A ball-room dress, and a costly shroud ! 
 The merry laugh, and the music's clang, 
 Forgetting the song the Shepherds sang ! 
 
 O, holy day ! what a load of sin 
 The people, through thee, do welcome in ! 
 'Tis best for me that my reckless feet 
 Are far from the brilliant dance, my sweet. 
 
 And yet, ah me ! ah, the human heart ! 
 
 The things of earth of its life are part. 
 The lamp's bright glare has a charming spell, 
 And I love the music all too well. 
 
 Merrily, revelers, dance away ! 
 
 It matters not where we kneel to pray, 
 
 For God 's as near in the halls of men 
 
 As in the cradle at Bethlehem.
 
 REACH ME YOUR HAND, DARLING. 
 
 REACH me your hand, darling, 
 
 I am waiting alone 
 In the gleam of the glory, 
 
 Surrounding the Throne. 
 The angels above me 
 
 Are smiling to see 
 How eager and anxious 
 
 I'm looking for thee. 
 
 Far up over cloudland, 
 
 Secure from life's ills, 
 My soul with new rapture 
 
 Exultingly thrills. 
 So long I have waited 
 
 And watched for the sign 
 Which tells my glad spirit 
 
 Of coming of thine ! 
 
 Behold ! I am leaning 
 
 From battlements blue, 
 My soul filled with longing, 
 
 A longing for you. 
 For heaven has but illy 
 
 Repaid me your loss, 
 And the light and the shadow 
 
 Fall checkered across.
 
 REACH ME YOUR HAND, DARLING. 121 
 
 Then reach me your hand, darling, 
 
 And hasten from thence, 
 This message I give thee 
 
 From Omnipotence : 
 " Haste thou to the spirits, 
 
 The happy, the blest ; 
 Though storm-tossed and weary, 
 
 Thou now shalt have rest." 
 
 This, this is the message 
 
 With which I now greet 
 The soul I have loved thus, 
 
 With loving complete. 
 Reach me your hand, darling, 
 
 As I wait here alone 
 In the gleam of the glory 
 
 Surrounding the Throne. 
 
 No more shall the terror, 
 
 Of earth and its care, 
 Have power to disturb thee, 
 
 Nor hope, nor despair. 
 Secure in the glory 
 
 That circles the blest, 
 O, reach me your hand, darling, 
 
 And learn all the rest.
 
 A WOMAN'S WANTS. 
 
 SOME one to look for with anxious delight, 
 Some one to kiss when the twilight is over, 
 
 Some one to love in the hush of the night, 
 Some one to be both a friend and a lover. 
 
 Some one to work for, to plan for, caress ; 
 
 Some one to look to in joy and in sorrow ; 
 Some one to ask the Good Father to bless, 
 
 Some one to be with to-day and to-morrow. 
 
 Some one to talk about what the day brings, 
 Some one to cheer up when fretful and dreary ; 
 
 Some one to bring home an armful of things, 
 Some one to say that the home-nest is cheery. 
 
 Some one to rest in this dear nook of love, 
 
 Some one to battle when storms have descended ; 
 
 Some one to be all one's own up above, 
 To wait for and welcome when life shall be ended.
 
 WE LOVE BUT ONCE. 
 
 " Once only. 
 Affection precious sweets 
 
 May through a thousand common channels give, 
 And yet the chary heart ecstatic beats, 
 
 Once only, while we live I " 
 
 ALICE GARY. 
 
 NEVER but once will the human heart 
 Thrill to the music of love's own strain ; 
 
 Never, oh, never, though years shall roll, 
 Will the glorious vision come again. 
 
 Never but once will the angel bright, 
 
 From the starry regions of heaven above, 
 
 Never but once will he touch the soul 
 To the glad emotions that spring from love. 
 
 Never but once, though the checkered years 
 Bring eyes of azure and eyes of jet, 
 
 Never but once will the bosom thrill 
 To a glorious dream it can ne'er forget. 
 
 Under the skies of a foreign clime, 
 Wandering ever from zone to zone, 
 
 Still will the human heart, so strange, 
 Return and cling to the loved alone.
 
 124 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Never but once will the angel, Love, 
 Stir life's depths with his balmy breath ; 
 
 Never but once, then, grand and true, 
 
 He will meet and conquer the angel, Death.
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 A GALLANT knight, with gems bedight, 
 
 Went riding along the moor; 
 A lady gay had passed that way, 
 
 Disliked by all the poor. 
 
 But the gallant knight, from clear, sheer spite, 
 
 Followed the lady gay, 
 Although his care for one more fair 
 
 Went with him night and day. 
 
 With speed he rode to a grand abode, 
 
 And knelt at the lady's feet; 
 But his heart was sore, for no, no more 
 
 Might he dream of a face more sweet. 
 
 'Twas a castle grand, in a foreign land, 
 Where the gallant knight the lady bore ; 
 
 Banners of pride swayed far and wide, 
 And draped the massy door. 
 
 And silver plate, from an old estate, 
 Shone bright on the marble board, 
 
 And servants proud smiled muqh, and bowed 
 To the knight with the gilded sword.
 
 126 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The new made bride, in her haughty pride, 
 
 Scarce deigned to taste the feast; 
 She had wed for gold and her heart was cold, 
 
 Nor thrilled for the knight the least. 
 
 As the wine foamed high, and the guests drew nigh, 
 
 A fair form draped in white, 
 With a pallid face, and a woeful grace, 
 
 Bowed low before the knight. 
 
 " Sir Knight ! Sir Knight ! " moaned the lips so 
 white, 
 
 " You have broken an awful vow : 
 
 t 
 
 Behold ! true steel your heart shall feel, 
 And I'll make your knees to bow." 
 
 And the guests looked up from each silver cup, 
 
 As the reeking dagger swung 
 In the maid's small hand, ere the dread command 
 
 Had hardly left her tongue. 
 
 But no one stirred, although all heard, 
 
 And the maniac girl went free : 
 Some queer folks say, that wed that way 
 
 The devil will have the fee.
 
 TO-DAY. 
 
 I AM not sad to-day : 
 
 The inner sanctuaries of my soul 
 Have not been stormed and given away; 
 
 I do not hear the awful roll 
 
 Of muttered thunder, such as stole 
 From out the heavens when Christ was crucified, 
 And Jewish spears went through his bleeding side. 
 
 I cannot say I am at rest; 
 
 God's universal law does not arrange it so ; 
 Yet no tumultuous feelings thrill my breast 
 
 While gazing out o'er winter's spotless snow ; 
 
 It is not that my blood now moves more slow 
 Than it has moved in gladder days gone by, 
 When Heaven seemed plain and clear before mine 
 eye. 
 
 I am not sad to-night, 
 
 Though nations pass before my eyes, 
 Some raising standards for the right, 
 
 Some raising wrong that surely dies, 
 
 All glorified with songs and cries 
 Which tell of deeds that color lands with fame, 
 And give unto a people place and name.
 
 128 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Dissembling France I see, 
 
 With purple hands behind her king, 
 
 And leering at the powers that be, 
 
 She lists to hear Italian songsters sing, 
 Whose freedom thrills through every lyre's rent 
 string, 
 
 And to the Old World's waiting nations speaks 
 
 In language crimson as the sunset streaks, 
 
 I am not sad to-day ; 
 
 For God, the Christ, the King, 
 I know sits high above this heaving world ; 
 
 And as her warriors fight, and poets sing, 
 And States are shaken with new flags unfurled, 
 His hand alone, with grand almighty skill, 
 Will raise that nation most which most exalts his 
 will.
 
 THE COUNT ST. JAMES. 
 
 TWAS a lovely day in the month of May, 
 The hills were green and the birds were gay, 
 And the graceful fall of the fountains fair, 
 Flung bewitching music upon the air. 
 
 The light leaves shook as the murmuring brook 
 Caught up the tune that the wild birds took ; 
 But the darkened cheek of the Count St. James 
 Was dyed with the hue of the summer flames 
 
 By his side there sat, with off-flung hat, 
 Sweet Alice, the rose of Avondat ; 
 And the blushes flew o'er her pure, fair face, 
 As he clasped her oft in a wild embrace. 
 
 " O, fly with me ! far over the sea, 
 Where the birds sing love from each bush and tree, 
 Where the blush that gleams on the Morning's brow 
 E'en rivals the blush that I gaze on now. 
 
 " There 's a trusty crew that await for you 
 In the bay that is hid by the rocks from view ; 
 And a bright, rich isle over Ocean's foam, 
 And there, sweet love, is our rose-wreathed home.' 1 
 9
 
 I3O MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Quick from her cheek fled the crimson streak, 
 A language more plain than lips could speak ; 
 And the quivering lips and downcast eyes 
 Were passionate pictures of Love's replies. 
 
 Sweet Alice was fair as the mountain air, 
 And pure as the breath of a living prayer ; 
 But the Count's fond words had reached her heart, 
 And" passion upheaved with a sudden start. 
 
 " I fly with thee ? yet wherefore flee, 
 Since I the Countess St. James shall be? 
 If you love so well what need of flight ? 
 The isle may be fair but our lives less bright." 
 
 In his eyes there lay a fire that day, 
 
 But his lips love-words could gently say, 
 
 And he knew, by the hue of her changing cheek, 
 
 The words that his burning lips might speak. 
 
 "To-night we fly, or the sunset sky 
 Will look on a lasting, a long good-by ; 
 In yonder hall there will come disgrace 
 To my wife, the Countess, with queenly face. 
 
 " What, love ! start'st thou ? by that snowy brow ! 
 You love me not or would ne'er shrink now, 
 Because ere I'd seen thy fair, sweet face 
 I had clasped another in my embrace."
 
 THE COUNT ST. JAMES. 131 
 
 The snowy brow grew like crimson now 
 At his careless jest .of the marriage vow, 
 But her trusting heart had forever been 
 So free from guilt that it knew no sin. 
 
 Lo ! the tempter came, and from lips of flame 
 Presented vice under virtue's name, 
 And the thrill that his words in her bosom woke 
 Had left her weak as had lightning stroke. 
 
 In a hall of pride there 's a disgraced bride, 
 But a fawning, worshipping world outside, 
 For the Countess' brow is proud and high, 
 And her diamonds' gleam like her flashing eye. 
 
 Her heart might break, but she still would make 
 Them think it was not for his false sake ; 
 She would hide whatever she felt of woe, 
 And the tempter and tempted alike might go. 
 
 'Twas a brave despair, but the mask we wear 
 To cover some woe or corroding care, 
 Oft poisons the blood, and sinks more deep 
 The pain of the hurt, till we fain would weep. 
 
 And the Countess grew (though the outside crew 
 Could discern no change to their blinded, view) 
 To be but a hollow, though brilliant thing, 
 Over "which her jewels no warmth could fling.
 
 132 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 But she sank at last, and the trial past, 
 Death severed, with quick, relentless grasp, 
 The chords of the heart that had long been cold, 
 And the Countess died with her woe untold. 
 
 In a rose-wreathed bower, at the twilight hour, 
 When the heart feels most love's bewitching power, 
 Lay a form like a sculptured marble stone, 
 With a brow more white which the sun glanced on. 
 
 There were signs of woe o'er the cheek of snow, 
 Where once bright flushes did come and go, 
 And the long, fair hair o'er her bosom flung 
 Had tangled the beams of the setting sun. 
 
 Like an angel hurled from the upper world, 
 Where his banner of light the Day King furled, 
 'Round whom all the glory of heaven still flames, 
 Lay sweet Alice : and where was the Count St. 
 James ? 
 
 In a lighted hall, where fleet feet fall, 
 He kneels to a lady who smiles on all ; 
 For her flashing eyes and her jetty hair 
 Have tired his heart of a face more fair. 
 
 And he gave to her, as a worshipper 
 Gives costliest jewels, and spice, and myrrh, 
 The love of a heart that till then had known 
 Not one throb of love pure love alone.
 
 THE COUNT ST. JAMES, 133 
 
 O, he loved at last, for the fiery blast 
 Of passion had withered away and passed ; 
 And he clasps a hand of bejeweled snow, 
 And he whispers, "Dear lady, O, must I go?" 
 
 In her clear, dark eye gleamed a purpose high, 
 As her red lips trembled to this reply : 
 " Go ! seek in an isle o'er the broad, blue sea 
 The life you have ruined and left for me ! 
 
 u I scorn your vow ! ah, 'tis well you bow 
 To a power you never have felt till now ; 
 Like hers you would mingle my life with woe 
 I hate you, despise you, and bid you go ! " 
 
 As the heart is shocked when the grating lock 
 Shuts down on our lives like a wind hurled rock, 
 So those few harsh words, with resistless might, 
 Filled the life of St. James with a dungeon's night. 
 
 He 'rose, he went ; but his form was bent, 
 As a score of years their weight had lent ; 
 And the pallid hue of his cheek and brow 
 Proved but too truly strong hearts may bow. 
 
 He had loved, and well o'er his bosom fell 
 The withering blight of an earthly hell ; 
 But he sought, as his lady had bade him seek, 
 A wasted form and a whitened cheek.
 
 134 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Over wave and foam, with a weary moan, 
 He sought out the isle he had left to roam ; 
 His heart was heavy, and wild his brain, 
 And his soul seemed left to consuming pain. 
 
 He reached the shore, and his feet once more 
 Trod the paths they so oft had trod before ; 
 And he sought again the once-loved bower 
 Where song and passion had winged each hour. 
 
 The roses fell with a soothing spell, 
 
 As if of their mistress they fain would tell ; 
 
 He parted the vines, but why forsook 
 
 All the blood his lips, as his stout form shook? 
 
 A still, white face, in the once loved place, 
 Bore of life and love not the slightest trace ; 
 The lips were mute, and the fair hair fell 
 O'er a silent heart ; it had loved too well. 
 
 In other lands soon he clasped fair hands, 
 
 'Mong the Alps' white snows, and the desert 
 
 sands ; 
 
 But he died, a reckless and wretched thing, 
 With a curse on his lips for his wandering.
 
 DARLING. 
 
 DID you ever call me darling, 
 
 With a flush upon your cheek? 
 Know you not my heart thrills ever 
 
 To the slightest word you speak? 
 Do you never guess how pleasant 
 
 Are the moments spent with you ? 
 That this strange, intense affection 
 
 Links my soul with all that 's true ? 
 
 Yes, you called me darling, one time, 
 
 In a tone so sweet and low 
 That its music thrills me ever, 
 
 Cheering me where'er I go. 
 Night was round us, soft and dewy, 
 
 Fragrant with the summer flowers, 
 And on wings of swiftest fleeing f 
 
 Sped the bright, entrancing hours. 
 
 Angels hovered in the shadows, 
 
 Whispering holy things to me, 
 Sounding through my spirit's cloisters 
 
 A bewildering symphony. 
 Darling ! never word of passion, 
 
 But this tender, thrilling one, 
 Sweet as that which charmed the lovers 
 
 When the world had first begun.
 
 136 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 And it charmed me, thrilled me, filled me 
 
 With supremest happiness ; 
 Not for king, with crown and sceptre, 
 
 Would I give that one caress. 
 Your hand mine was fondly clasping 
 
 In its grasp my future lay, 
 For a love then sprang to being 
 
 Which will never know decay.
 
 ALICE GARY. 
 
 THE world has lost a splendor 
 
 From the starry realms of song, 
 The voice whose thrilling sweetness 
 
 Has charmed the world so long. 
 E'en the lowly wildwood daisies, 
 
 As they nod on prairies free, 
 Will miss the breezy fragrance 
 
 Of her wondrous melody. 
 
 In woodland nooks and hollows, 
 
 Where violets shade their blue, 
 Will Nature shed her tear-drops 
 
 In drops of crystal dew ; 
 And stars that come out nightly, 
 
 On the firmament o'erhead, 
 Will shine in softer glory 
 
 O'er the spot where she lies dead. 
 
 But when Spring-time brings the flowers, 
 
 Looking upward to the sky, 
 They will speak with prophet voice 
 
 Of her immortality; 
 While beyond the sunset's splendor 
 
 She will list with radiant eyes, 
 And retune her heavenly lyre 
 
 To the airs of Paradise.
 
 WORLD-WEARY. 
 
 IF afar from toil and turmoil 
 I might rest awhile with thee, 
 
 Earth would hold no gladder spirit, 
 None more fraught with melody. 
 
 Every bird would sing an anthem, 
 Every blossom glow with praise, 
 
 All that nature strews around me 
 
 . Would but wing the gladsome days. 
 
 Never would my soul grow weary, 
 
 Resting thus afar with thee, 
 For one love which fondly shelters 
 
 Is enough to comfort me. 
 Love would make the roses blossom 
 
 With a dear, delicious red, 
 Love would change to clearest azure 
 
 Every threatening cloud o'erhead. 
 
 O, beloved! amid the toiling, 
 
 When the twilight creeps apace, 
 How I long to nestle closely 
 
 In a restful, long embrace : 
 Nestle, knowing that the future 
 
 Holds not days of work and pain, 
 But the brightness and the triumph 
 
 Of a loss which is our gain.
 
 WORLD- WE A RY. 139 
 
 So, I drift away in dream-land, 
 
 Drift away in dreaming rest ; 
 Nothing more my tried heart craveth 
 
 Save the shelter of your breast. 
 Pass, O world of work and worry, 
 
 Leave me to my world of love ! 
 Wake me not from this reposing 
 
 'Till I wake in lands above.
 
 TEMPTATION. 
 
 'TWAS a scene of gorgeous pleasure, 
 
 Incense-laden, crimsoned air, 
 And the light of lamps gleamed softly 
 
 O'er the proud, the gay, and fair. 
 
 Forms there were like sculptured beauty ; 
 
 Eyes whose light outshone the stars ; 
 Brows of grandness like the angels', 
 
 But, alas ! an earth-stain mars. 
 
 Winning lips with words whose sweetness 
 Seemed the chant of angel strain ; 
 
 But in all this sweetness mingled 
 Earthly passion's restless pain. 
 
 And the wine-cup, brightly gleaming, 
 Carelessly by fair hands raised, 
 
 Lent a most bewitching seeming 
 To the hope of future days. 
 
 Red lips sang of love and gladness, 
 
 Sipping fast the ruby wine ; 
 'Mid that festive scene no sadness 
 
 Seemed to touch the brow of Time.
 
 TEMPT A T1ON. 1 4 1 
 
 Music trilled her softest measure, 
 
 Bright eyes. flashed with mirth and pride; 
 
 But down, down beneath the pleasure 
 Might not awful anguish hide ? 
 
 Yes, ah, yes ! from scene so pleasant 
 
 Let us follow some away ; 
 Look ye now upon the present, 
 
 Then upon a future day. 
 
 There stands one ! A man whose genius 
 
 Is in burning words displayed, 
 And whose eloquence, outbursting, 
 
 Senate House and Halls has swayed. 
 
 On his brow, already, laurel 
 
 By the people's hands is flung, 
 And his power to mould and fashion 
 
 Flaming thought is on each tongue. 
 
 See ! he drains the sparkling goblet 
 
 Till its brightness fills his eyes ; 
 And as one inspired he talketh, 
 
 But the inspiration dies. 
 
 Follow to that princely dwelling 
 
 In the lone hours of the night ; 
 Little need much more of telling 
 
 Lo ! so soon has come the blight.
 
 142 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Anxiously the fond wife meets him ; 
 
 That her noble husband ! he 
 Whom she once so proudly welcomed 
 
 Crowned with wreaths of Poesie ! 
 
 Yes, his genius is extinguished ; 
 
 Groveling there he seems a beast : 
 But he came from halls of prestige, 
 
 From a most distingue feast. 
 
 Curses on the world of fashion ! 
 
 Curses on these tempting things ! 
 Why will men and women tempt us 
 
 To partake of that which stings ? 
 
 Once more, reader, from that meeting 
 
 We will trace another life ; 
 Out amid the hurrying life-tide, 
 
 From a scene with beauty rife. 
 
 There she stands ! a royal woman, 
 
 In the pride of womanhood ; 
 Power and strength look from her features, 
 
 Mighty power for doing good. 
 
 Fashionable ! she sipped the dainty, 
 Tempting, rosy, sparkling wine, 
 
 Carelessly amid the gathering, 
 Losing strength for future time.
 
 TEMPT A TION. 1 43 
 
 Disappointments, sharp and bitter, 
 
 Overtook her by and by ; 
 She had overleaped the barrier, 
 
 'Twas no easy thing to die. 
 
 So she said : " I like the burning 
 Of the wine ; /'// drown my grief '/" 
 
 See you not there 's no returning? 
 And her sequel, too, is brief. 
 
 Fashion ! wine ! disgrace ! now, dying, 
 
 Trace it to the first rash act ; 
 Do not trust yourself to tamper 
 
 With the wine look at the fact. 
 
 Once again be curses ever 
 
 On the lips that dare to say, 
 " Drink ! your strength is equal to it ; 
 
 Drink ! enjoy yourself to-day ! " 
 
 Down with wine ! yea, down with fashion ! 
 
 Lift the temperance banner high ! 
 Drink the beverage God has ordered, 
 
 Wine whose worth is purity.
 
 MORNING ON THE MOUNTAINS. 
 
 LIST ! the rush of breezy pinions ! 
 
 Lo ! the spirits of the air ! 
 Lift your brow ! behold the glory 
 
 Beaming, glowing everywhere ! 
 On the hills the trees are stirring 
 
 With a strange, mysterious voice, 
 And the gleaming peaks of mountains 
 
 In the morning rays rejoice. 
 
 Bare your brow before these tokens 
 
 Of a wiser One than we, 
 And, amid the glow and silence, 
 
 Bow thee once, most reverently. 
 Let the mountains, and the sunlight, 
 
 And the glorious hues of morn 
 Teach that for a life of purpose 
 
 Men and women have been born. 
 Search your heart, and read its secrets 
 
 On the mountains grand and lone, 
 And, when once again you meet me, 
 
 Bring me thoughts akin my own.
 
 THE DYING GIRL TO HER MOTHER. 
 
 KEEP the homestead pleasant, mother, 
 
 As it was in days gone by ; 
 Childhood's home ! I loved it dearly, 
 
 But, dear mother, I shall die. 
 I can see the green trees swaying 
 
 In the pleasant summer breeze, 
 And my heart beats slow and sadly 
 
 As I sit and muse of these. 
 
 There are many comforts, mother, 
 
 In our home upon the hill, 
 But I shall not need them, mother, 
 
 When this aching heart is still. 
 Keep them for your other daughter 
 
 Who has staid to give you cheer ; 
 Keep them, though unto the wanderer 
 
 They were always very dear. 
 
 You have thought the bright green homestead, 
 
 Our home, mother, far away, 
 Would be brighter if our voices 
 
 Made glad music there some day. 
 But the voice of her who wanders 
 
 Never more will wake to song, 
 For the heart, from which springs music, 
 
 Has been sorrowful too long. 
 10
 
 146 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 I can see each clean room, mother, 
 
 All the flowers I left one day, 
 All the wood, and all the meadows, 
 
 Where I used alone to stray. 
 But there are some other memories, 
 
 More than these, that stir my heart; 
 So I cannot see you, mother ! 
 
 Thus I think as tear-drops start. 
 
 I had hoped to bind my forehead 
 
 With the laurel wreath of fame ; 
 But I fear your little daughter 
 
 Ne'er will earn a lifted name. 
 I can work no longer, mother, 
 
 I am longing so for rest; 
 Earth will not deny me always : 
 
 I shall gladly seek her breast. 
 
 Do not grieve for me, dear mother, 
 
 Though I see my home no more ; 
 I remember every footpath 
 
 Which was dear to me of yore ; 
 Give your presents to my sister, 
 
 Of them I shall ne'er have need ; 
 Only don't forget me, mother, 
 
 When these few fond lines you read. 
 
 Dear old home ! so bright and pleasant, 
 Happy hours I've spent in thee ! 
 
 But I've found, as years roll onward, 
 Life is but a troubled sea.
 
 THE DYING GIRL TO HER MOTHER. 147 
 
 You will not forget me, mother, 
 
 Father, sister, brother, all ; 
 For my love, and stern ambition, 
 
 I am now beyond recall.
 
 RICHMOND ON THE JAMES. 
 
 A SOLDIER boy lay dying on a distant Southern plain, 
 
 For the minnie balls had fallen like a thickly fall 
 ing rain, 
 
 And the boy, his blue eyes glazing, to a comrade 
 reached his hand, 
 
 And bade him tell it softly in his blue-skied 
 Northern land, 
 
 The story that, unwilling, his dying lips now spoke, 
 
 For 'twould fall upon his loved ones like a sud 
 den thunder-stroke : 
 
 " O, tell them not I died in the torture of these 
 pains, 
 
 While our flag was proudly floating over Richmond 
 on the James." 
 
 n. 
 
 " Now, brother, comrade, listen to the words I have 
 
 to say, 
 They may save you much of sorrow in some future, 
 
 reckless day ; 
 Though you scarcely may believe it, yet the wreck 
 
 which now you see 
 Came from drinking of the wine when it sparkles 
 
 brilliantly ;
 
 RICHMOND ON THE JAMES. 149 
 
 "I was wild and careless, comrade, when I came 
 
 away from' home, . 
 And the genial, merry Southrons led me farther 
 
 on to roam ; 
 "I liked their life of pleasure, from drink scarce 
 
 one abstains, 
 But this was far at Richmond at Richmond on 
 
 the James. 
 
 in. 
 
 "'Twas a scene of maddest pleasure, for the South 
 ern pride was there, 
 One might feel its power and passion in the richly 
 
 laden air ; 
 I had come to see the Southland, and the war 
 
 had broken forth, 
 I had written to my mother that she soon would 
 
 see me North ; 
 I'd been thinking of this, comrade, 'mid the music 
 
 and the whirl, 
 Together with the image of a fair-haired, loving 
 
 girl; 
 But soon I did forget them 'mid the wine and 
 
 music's strains, 
 And I sold my birthright, comrade, at Richmond 
 
 on the James. 
 
 IV. 
 
 "You may think it not becoming, in a man of 
 
 mind and pride, 
 That the sparkle of the wine drowned the thought 
 
 of all beside;
 
 150 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Yet I sipped the ruby wine 'till my reason fled 
 
 away 
 For I joined the Southern army ere the rosy dawn 
 
 of day ; 
 The wine had made me drunken, and, bereft of 
 
 reason's light, 
 I joined the bands of traitors, and hastened to the 
 
 fight; 
 Yes, I signed my name there, comrade, 'mong many 
 
 other names, 
 That ill-fated night at Richmond at Richmond 
 
 on the James. 
 
 v. 
 
 " I can tell but little more, for my breath is grow 
 ing less ; 
 
 How my dear ones' hearts are aching, O, comrade, 
 you can guess ; 
 
 But I can't forbear to ask you if my place among 
 the dead 
 
 Resulted not from looking on ' the wine when it was 
 red?' 
 
 Had I heeded mother's warning, and the earnest 
 words of one 
 
 Whose happiness, I fear, is for evermore undone, 
 
 I might have now been dying where the fire of 
 freedom flames, 
 
 A patriot, and a victor, at Richmond on the James. 
 
 VI. 
 
 " Tell my story gently, comrade, when you say that 
 I'm no more,
 
 RICHMOND ON THE JAMES. 151 
 
 And be to her 'a brother, the kindest, I implore ; 
 But to all the boys, in accents that are loud and 
 
 earnest, tell 
 If they look upon the wine cup 'tis the first step 
 
 straight to Hell ; 
 O, I pray you do beseech them! but my heart 
 
 is growing cold 
 God help you, comrade ; profit by the story I have 
 
 told ! " 
 Then the blue eyes opened wildly, and the pale 
 
 lips ceased to move, 
 And some one's white-browed darling was deaf to 
 
 human love : 
 One more victim of the wine-cup lay there free 
 
 from mortal pains, 
 
 While the starry Flag swayed proudly over Rich 
 mond on the James.
 
 LINES, 
 
 WRITTEN AFTER RECEIVING A BOUQUET OF ROSES, WITH THE 
 MESSAGE THAT IT CONTAINED A KISS. 
 
 So you sent a kiss this morning 
 
 In the roses June calls hers ; 
 Sent it to the most devoted 
 
 Of her beauty's worshippers. 
 Just one kiss ? I failed to find one, 
 
 For each rose seemed to enfold 
 Many kisses, much affection, 
 
 Which I'd not exchange for gold. 
 All the roses bent them softly 
 
 With the love they told to me, 
 And I kissed them for the giver, 
 
 Loving both right loyally.
 
 CHRISTMAS BANQUET SONG. 
 
 'Tis Christmas night, the skies are bright, 
 
 And brightly glows the hearth ; 
 From far and near come words of cheer, 
 
 And many a sound of mirth. 
 Few, few there be this side the sea 
 
 Who now feel less of care, 
 And none on all this earthly ball 
 
 To-night find life more fair. 
 
 The table 's spread, wine rare and red 
 
 Foams in the silver cup, 
 So now, my boys, to Christmas joys 
 
 We'll drink the contents up. 
 Sweet eyes to-night beam on us bright, 
 
 And lips of ruby hue 
 Trill o^ut the song, both loud and long, 
 
 And 'sing for me and you. 
 
 In hall, or bovver, no gladder hour 
 
 For mortals ever shone, 
 Song, song, and dance, shall soul entrance 
 
 'Till midnight hours are flown. 
 The roses blush whene'er a hush 
 
 Falls o'er the lighted throng,
 
 154 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Then merry feet, with footsteps fleet, 
 Keep pace with liquid song. 
 
 Bright heads are bowed among the crowd 
 
 To list a loving tone, 
 And brows of snow like sunset glow 
 
 When two stray off alone. 
 O, fairest night ! so glad, so bright ! 
 
 List not to lovers' sighs, 
 Young hearts will beat with rapture sweet 
 
 When reading tell-tale eyes. 
 
 O, Viol, wake ! the silence break 
 
 With notes of joyousness ; 
 This night, in sooth, is meant for youth, 
 
 And all that it can bless. 
 Now down the dance, as in a trance, 
 
 We'll trip the measure through, 
 And in our grasp soft hands we'll clasp 
 
 With pleasure strange and new. 
 
 Glide slowly hours, o'er beds of flowers, 
 
 We fain would have you stay ; , 
 Not every heart will dread to part 
 
 With this year's Christmas day. 
 Come now, again, a louder strain 
 
 From viol and from horn ! 
 With melting glance, and song, and dance, 
 
 We'll usher in the morn.
 
 LIFE'S DARKNESS. 
 
 WORK on, work on ! and a bitter jest 
 The life which we live becomes, at best ; 
 Who cares for the light of a future day, 
 If one must forever work and pray ? 
 
 Work on, work on ! as the hours drag by, 
 And pale lips murmur, would I could die ! 
 Would the busy world, with careless breath, 
 Stop for one moment above your death ? 
 
 Why long to die ? says the workman bold, 
 In eager chase for the shining gold ; 
 The world is wide, it is broad and fair, 
 Why yield your soul to the fiend despair? 
 
 Why yield, ye ask ? O, ye hearts of stone, 
 Who cares to live, just to live alone ? 
 Who cares for the glare of the yellow gold, 
 If the hearts that we love are bought and sold ? 
 
 For what do we climb to the heights of fame, 
 And work for an everlasting name ? 
 Is it not that the hearts we love the best 
 Shall thrill with pride as they call us blest?
 
 156 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Work on, work on ! when the heart is sick, 
 And the darkness gathers fast and thick ! 
 And none to censure, and none to praise, 
 And those we love gone separate ways. 
 
 Of what avail is the gaping crowd, 
 Though the praise they give be long and loud ? 
 Who cares for a future so far ahead ? 
 O, were it not better if one were dead ? 
 
 Jog on, great world, in your wild, mad strife, 
 The One who has given must take back life : 
 Yet, bitter heart, there 's one bliss in store, 
 'Tis a shining crown on the farther shore.
 
 MAY, 1864. 
 
 WITH the fragrance of the violets 
 
 Comes a lofty, clanging sound, 
 Though the May breeze rustles over 
 
 The thickly dead-strewn ground 
 Where our squadrons met in conflict, 
 
 And disputed with the foe 
 Each inch of grass and daisies, 
 
 Till the soil was red below. 
 
 But our Northern violets' fragrance 
 
 Is mingled with a tone 
 Which tells our brave have perished, 
 
 And a victory has been won. 
 That the Wrong went down so quickly, 
 
 That the Right went up with will ; 
 While the cannon's glad notes ringing 
 
 Give an echo to each hill. 
 
 From the Northern soil the violets 
 
 Look with their eyes of blue ; 
 From the Southern soil dead faces 
 
 Uplook for me and you ; 
 For the Right has been triumphant, 
 
 And the Wrong must fall below 
 And the South has dead to bury 
 
 While our Northern violets blow.
 
 COSETTE TO MARIUS. 
 
 THE tempest was lashing with terror 
 
 The back of a Night in the past, 
 And the winds, like the voices of demons, 
 
 Were rising up savage and fast, 
 And the passionate blood of my being 
 
 Grew hot with the fever of youth, 
 While my spirit, unclad and unshaken, 
 
 Ascended the stairway of Truth. 
 
 Then I bowed to the hand that fell on me, 
 
 That fell tenderly down on my head, 
 And my bosom was throbbing and thrilling 
 
 To the tender, sweet words you had said. 
 As that hand, in its restless estraying, 
 
 Caressed me with pulses so warm, 
 All the hidden, fond thrills of my nature 
 
 Awoke in tumultuous storm. 
 
 My spirit leaned forth from my features, 
 
 And fearlessly looked from my eyes, 
 While your passionate mouth drew the kisses 
 
 Frpm my lips in burning replies. 
 You remember the elements clashing, 
 
 The sheet of the bright wreathing flame, 
 But do you, my darling, remember 
 
 The tears that I could not restrain?
 
 COSETTE TO MAR I US. 159 
 
 Then your long, long bewildering glances 
 
 Led my soul. forth to faint and to swoon, 
 As the Morning lies down with reluctance 
 
 In the tropic embrace of the Noon. 
 I knew not, I cared not if whirlwinds 
 
 Then frowned from the black stormy sky, 
 For my soul, like a Queen robed in purple, 
 
 Had dared the whole world to pass -by ; 
 For the floods of my sensuous being 
 
 Rose in tides, like the tides of the sea, 
 And now, though we long have been parted, 
 
 They threaten to overwhelm me.
 
 THE VOICE OF THE WOOD. 
 
 I VE wandered in the wood to-day, 
 
 My soul with music stirred ; 
 It -seemed your spirit bent to hear 
 
 Each lightly whispered word. 
 The leaves lay thick upon the earth, 
 
 The sunlight's luscious hue 
 Came flickering down upon my head 
 
 As when I sat by you. 
 
 O, these are royal, golden days, 
 
 .And waken in my soul 
 A thousand thoughts I cannot tell, 
 
 Which o'er my bosom roll. 
 The far-off whisper of the winds 
 
 Among the dropping leaves 
 Seems to my ear a spirit-voice, 
 
 Which gladdens, and yet grieves. 
 
 Yet notwithstanding Nature's calm, 
 
 So fair, so soft, so still, 
 Tempestuous thoughts within my soul 
 
 My being's pulses thrill. 
 The beckoning years stand off afar 
 
 Through Autumn's hazy gold, 
 And bid me walk the heights ahead 
 
 Although my heart be cold.
 
 THE VOICE OF THE WOOD. 1 6 1 
 
 And then the Past, with noiseless feet, 
 
 Comes to me warningly, 
 And tells me of the spirit's dearth 
 
 Across Ambition's sea. 
 
 With solemn sacredness the leaves 
 
 Are falling, one by one ; 
 Above, the grand blue sky is arched, 
 
 Around me beams the sun ; 
 And, through the mysteries of air, 
 
 That magic voice again 
 Wakes in my being's depths what I 
 
 Can scarce call bliss or pain. 
 
 Come near, O, disembodied voice ! 
 
 And touch the chords of song ; 
 The tones that erst were wont to gush 
 
 Have buried been too long. 
 Wake up again within my soul 
 
 Their passion, power, and pride ; 
 And let me dream my spirit's force 
 
 Once more walks far and wide. 
 
 O, wondrous, mystic human life ! 
 
 O, mighty power of mind ! 
 The thrills which through all nature sweep 
 
 My soul has half defined. 
 The bending sky is God's own book, 
 
 His smile the yellow air ; 
 The murmur is a voice of love 
 
 Which thrills me everywhere.
 
 LINCOLN'S DEATH. 
 
 TOLL, toll the bell from the highest towers of earth ! 
 Toll, toll the bell to the farthest ends of earth ! 
 Lost, lost, aye, lost to the world for evermore, 
 He who would have steered the Ship of State to 
 
 shore 
 
 Through the awful peril of this awful time 
 Meekly great, and unpresumingly sublime. 
 O, patriot friend ! O, royal one of earth ! 
 
 Tried in the furnace of a direful wrath ! 
 Thou now art gone, aye, gone to heaven from 
 earth, 
 
 With none to follow in thy princely path. 
 The nation rocks, may founder without thee ; 
 Listen ! the tyrants laugh across the sea. 
 O, man of might ! O, man of matchless worth ! 
 For him toll all the grandest bells of earth ! 
 A nation mourns ! each heart has throbs of pain ! 
 How lightning quick the awful news came on 
 And scattered grief o'er all this wide domain, 
 And made flushed faces, O, so pale and wan ! 
 Our noble President, who was to be 
 
 Our guardian, friend, protector, all, lies dead ; 
 Not, not disease, but murderers' hands have made 
 
 Our grand, gigantic nation lose its head, 
 To drift about upon an unknown sea. *
 
 LINCOLN'S DEATH. 163 
 
 Yet this the question should we be dismayed ? 
 
 The Lord Almighty guards his people yet j 
 And He has called to higher station him 
 
 Whose latter life, so rough, had never fret 
 Or furious passion in it. Calm, and high, and true, 
 He did, with earnest will, the work he had to do, 
 And millions blessed him ; though, albeit, some 
 
 Denied the good he did ; for never one uprose 
 To carping foes so leniently dumb 
 
 As he who slumbers now in great and grand 
 
 repose ; 
 
 The kind heart still, the exerted brain at rest 
 A mighty sun gone out upon the fiery west ; 
 Set amid cannon-thunder, pealing victory, 
 And flags and banners swaying all triumphantly 
 
 Above the traitors' ransacked, reclaimed soil. 
 A fitting time, methinks, for that great soul, 
 
 A nation's centre from its mighty toil 
 To cease, and 'mid red blood and glory mount 
 
 above : 
 One human life full-crowned with deeds of love. 
 
 The nation rights ! I see her, through the gloom, 
 
 Steer safely o'er the shoals which are before ; 
 The pole-star to her course our Lincoln's tomb ; 
 
 He who can labor with us, nevermore. 
 Our sun is set, but light enough remains 
 
 To guide our Ship of State to calmest peace ; 
 That light will linger till the bloody stains 
 
 Of treason fade. So, royally release 
 The spirit of our God-lent Champion. Toll ! toll !
 
 164 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 With dirge of bells, and cannon's thunderous roll ! 
 Lower the flags of the nation, lower, and low ! 
 Muffle the drums of the nation ! all we know 
 Wringeth the nation's heart ! Roll, roll ! Toll, toll, 
 
 toll! 
 For the Lord God has called for a kingly soul.
 
 HAPPINESS. 
 
 O, HAPPINESS ! thou art my theme, 
 And I will tell like what you seem. 
 To most you seem a solid gem 
 
 Which every hand can grasp with ease, 
 A light and graceful diadem 
 
 Which all can don whene'er they please. 
 To me you seem a pleasant day, 
 A path with flowers strewn all the way ; 
 A clasping hand, and love-low voice, 
 And two hearts beating to rejoice ; 
 Two kneeling down, in solemn trust, 
 To Him who made them from the dust j 
 A firm reliance on the One 
 Who rules afar, beyond the sun, 
 And, gliding on in peace and calm, 
 Each moment bathed in heavenly balm ; 
 Yes, this, to me, seems happiness, 
 That which humanity would bless. 
 
 O, Happiness ! now what thou art, 
 I'll quickly tell with heavy heart ; 
 A magic word which thrills the soul 
 Till passion's fiercest billows roll ; 
 A dainty phantom, flimsy, light, 
 Which lures like will-o-wisp at night;
 
 1 66 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The fatal mirage, traveller-curst, 
 
 A dancing bubble, quickly burst ; 
 
 A brilliant star, too high to grasp ; 
 
 A strain of music, quickly past ; 
 
 A nothing to the longing touch ; 
 
 A something that we chase too much ; 
 
 Alas ! thou art a silly name, 
 
 Ascribed alike to love and fame. 
 
 A thing we seek, which, soon as found, 
 
 Sinks from our sight into the ground, 
 
 And leaves a shadow, wondrous less, 
 
 And this, by name, is Happiness.
 
 THE KNIGHT AND THE MAID. 
 
 OVER the waves, on the Old World's shore, 
 A castle there stood, in days of yore ; 
 Massy, and gloomy, and dark with age, 
 The home of a knight and youthful page. 
 
 A forest behind held flocks of deer, 
 Before, on the beach, the waves broke clear; 
 And the sturdy oaks, which graced the lawn, 
 Sheltered the bounding, beautiful fawn. 
 
 And all was grand in that stately home, 
 Yet the knight prepared himself to roam ; 
 He buckled on sword and massy shield, 
 And sped away to a battle-field. 
 
 O, why did he leave his halls of pride, 
 His shaven plains and his woodlands wide ; 
 And, above them all, a fair, sweet life, 
 For war's harsh din, and a scene of strife ? 
 
 Ah ! his was a soul of noblest kind, 
 Within were valor and truth enshrined ; 
 His native land of her sons had need, 
 And he proved his rank by royal deed.
 
 1 68 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 The field was red, and the foe was great, 
 He kissed a maid by an ivy gate, 
 Then urged his courser in speed away, 
 And sought the front of the awful fray. 
 
 With breastplate on, and his visor down, 
 He battled to save his King and crown ; 
 And dealt, with the strength of mighty will, 
 His blows, till his haughty foes were still. 
 
 The King was saved, and the land was free, 
 Secured by his subjects' bravery ; 
 But the castle's lord, the maiden's love, 
 Was slumbering low with the sods above. 
 
 And down to the gate the maiden goes, 
 
 Her black hair wreathed with a wild white rose ; 
 
 And the castle stands as then of yore, 
 
 But the high-souled knight comes never more. 
 
 He has a place on the roll of fame, 
 
 And his deeds rank high with honor's name; 
 
 But the ages come, the ages go, 
 
 And naught says fame of the maiden's woe.
 
 THE LOVER'S MEETING. 
 
 INSCRIBED TO MISS MOLLIE B*****. 
 
 I MET her in the streets one day, 
 
 She threw a kiss so sweet to me 
 That all the air between us thrilled 
 
 And trembled with strange ecstasy. 
 I saw the dear cheek, purely pale, 
 
 Glow with a pink so dainty, fine, 
 That angels must have envied me 
 
 The thoughts which filled this heart of mine. 
 
 The passing glance she gave to me 
 
 Was warmest welcome, glad surprise, 
 And all the loves and graces beamed 
 
 From the dear heaven of her blue eyes ; 
 Some days of absence there had been, 
 
 But now this meeting, sudden, sweet, 
 Had bridged the emptiness of life 
 
 And brimmed its cup with wine complete. 
 
 May the dear hand whose whiteness gave 
 
 That one sweet token of her love, 
 Cull roses thornless here below, 
 
 And lilies where we meet above; 
 And when I walk the pass of death, 
 
 If she be crossed to welcome me, 
 The same dear hand which flung that kiss 
 
 Shall crown my immortality.
 
 APOSTROPHE TO MY LYRE. 
 
 AWAKE, my lyre ! in breathings deep and strong, 
 And burst the fetters which have bound thee long ; 
 Too long in silence have thy numbers slept 
 She who awakes them has nor joyed nor wept. 
 In dumb composure has my soul been bound, 
 And thus thy strings have quivered to no sound ; 
 But now, from out the tempest tossed within, 
 Wake up the notes that in the past have been ; 
 Rouse feeling from this dull, chaotic sleep, 
 And if it be not gay, then let me weep. 
 No more, my lyre, let silence rust thy strings, 
 Though every note in saddest music rings. 
 All Nature now is hushed to wondrous calm, 
 And this, at least, should bring the spirit balm. 
 From the dun gray of the horizon sky 
 Naught meets the wandering, weary, restless eye, 
 Save stooping hills, and curling wreaths of smoke ; 
 The landscape seems a blessing to invoke. 
 Some loftier scene, some range of rugged land, 
 Formed into mountains stretching upward, grand ; 
 Crude, shapeless rocks, with torrents foaming o'er, 
 Would be in keeping with my feelings more. 
 The thunder's crash, the lightning's fiery smile, 
 Would for a time my soul's uproar beguile.
 
 APOSTROPHE TO MY LYRE. I/I 
 
 O, human hearts are wondrous mystic things, 
 
 And give a thousand tones from thousand strings ; 
 
 By little shaken, scarcely jarred by all, 
 
 Upraised with naught, and yet with naught to fall ; 
 
 Made to search out the mysteries of life, 
 
 And yet to be with mystic feelings rife, 
 
 Yet cease, my lyre ! thy notes are wailing low 
 
 When in tumultuous music they should flow. 
 
 At once breathe out, in one majestic strain, 
 
 The feelings pent within, and ne'er again 
 
 Seek to revive the tones which once were free, 
 
 When soul felt more, or less, tranquillity ; 
 
 With one strong note break every quivering string, 
 
 And die, as heroes die, in triumphing.
 
 THE BREAKING UP. 
 
 I HAVE often heard of the breaking up 
 
 Of the Northern ice and snow ; 
 Of the torrents which foam and sweep along 
 
 And deluge the world below. 
 I have heard how the thunder crash comes in 
 
 'Mid the roar of maddened waves 
 Which carry whole villages down, right down, 
 
 To their scattered, nameless graves. 
 
 I have heard how the avalanche conies down 
 
 On the Switzer's home below, 
 And likened it to the terrible sweep 
 
 Of some awful, crushing woe : 
 The breaking up of the ice in Spring, 
 
 To the breaking up of rest, 
 And the torrents, which rock the river's bed, 
 
 To the sobs which shake the breast. 
 
 Ah, me ! when the terrible cry comes in, 
 
 We long for an arm to stay; 
 Some hand which will guide o'er the darkened 
 path, 
 
 Some one who will point the way. 
 There is One above, there are none below, 
 
 Of all who are dear to thee, 
 Who can guide the bark, who can 'save the soul 
 
 That is drifting out at sea.
 
 STORMS. 
 
 TWAS a night when the demons seemed loosened, 
 For the stars they had gone under cover, 
 
 And I lay down weary and weakened 
 And thought of a recreant lover. 
 
 I had oft read, in olden romances, 
 Of the lovers who sang to each other 
 
 With a tenderness tearfully thrilling, 
 
 More sweet than a child's for its mother. 
 
 Then the heavens grew blacker and blacker, 
 And the tempest grew bolder and bolder, 
 
 And I prayed for the curly black head 
 That had bent till it lay on my shoulder. 
 
 For the eyes that were brimful of loving, 
 
 And the brow which the black hair fell over, 
 
 And the red lips which quivered at parting, 
 All belonged to my recreant lover. 
 
 One day, in the years of my childhood, 
 I was maddened with visions of Beauty, 
 
 And the love which then sprung into being 
 Has forever kept conflict with Duty.
 
 174 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 This face I had looked on but rarely, 
 But at last it rose clear on my vision, 
 
 And the hair, and the eyes, and the forehead, 
 Were no longer a dream of Elysian.* 
 
 But the white hand that oft has caressed me, 
 And the head that has lain on my shoulder, 
 
 O God! they are far in the darkness, 
 
 And the tempest grows bolder and bolder. 
 
 May the angels who bend o'er our pathways 
 Be more tender with him than a mother, 
 
 And return, when the storm-clouds are rifted, 
 To my bosom this recreant lover.
 
 " KEEP YOUR EYE ON THAT FLAG." 
 
 KEEP your eye on that Flag! 'tis a beacon of light 
 
 To the millions over the sea, 
 
 Who so eagerly look through Oppressions' dark 
 night 
 
 To the land of the great and free ; 
 And, rejoicing, they list to our cannon's fierce roar, 
 
 Which rolls from the Lakes to the main, 
 While we shout, 'till it reaches that far distant shore : 
 
 Your despots are frowning in vain ! 
 
 Keep your eye on that Flag! 'tis the rallying sign 
 
 Of the legions this side the waves ; 
 Its hues, born in heaven, have a meaning divine, 
 
 Which wars with the title of slaves ; 
 From the tramp of our armies with sinews of steel, 
 
 And our fleets of measureless length, 
 Lo ! the hordes of the traitor and despot now reel, 
 
 Surprised at our terrible strength. 
 
 t 
 Keep your eye on that Flag! 'tis the emblem of 
 
 Right, 
 
 The hope of the ages to be : 
 O, how proudly it waves o'er the charge in the 
 
 fight, 
 And follows the foe as they fjee.
 
 176 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Keep your eye on that Flag ! for it heroes have died, 
 Who sleep 'neath their green native sod 
 
 Come, ye living ! march on in their pathway of pride, 
 And fight in this battle for God.
 
 TO A FRIEND. 
 
 BY every hope my life hath e'er been weaving, 
 By all the future holds in store for me, 
 
 By every heartless method of deceiving, 
 By all we trust our lives are yet to be, 
 I'll not forget thee. 
 
 When solemn prayer, upon the soft air breathing, 
 
 Wakes every holy impulse of the soul, 
 When friends my brow with garlands bright are 
 
 wreathing, 
 
 Or sorrow's tempests fiercely o'er me roll, 
 I'll not forget thee. 
 
 And when in chains bright Sleep has softly bound me 
 And dreams of friends flit through my resting 
 
 mind, 
 
 And guardian angels hover close around me, 
 To bring me thoughts of one forever kind, 
 I'll not forget thee. 
 
 And O, should some, their truth to me repenting, 
 
 Take back from me the treasure of their love, 
 And some dark angel stand a cup presenting 
 To drown my faith in Him who rules above, 
 
 I'll not forget thee. 
 12
 
 1/8 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Should cruel Fate keep us forever parted, 
 
 Till life's bright lamp is burning dim and low, 
 
 And each shall think of each as one departed, 
 To clasp the hand of love no more below, 
 I'll ne'er forget thee.
 
 FINALE. 
 
 GHOSTLY winds on the moor to-night, ghostly winds 
 
 on the moor, 
 And I hear the click of the moving gate, but no 
 
 foot at the door ; 
 
 There are storms at sea, ah me ! ah me ! 
 The storms on the sea blow wrecks, blow wrecks 
 
 ashore, 
 And none can tell from whence they be. 
 
 The hours step soft as they pass along, they are 
 velvet-shod, I guess, 
 
 And the cold, fair months are gliding by in a brill 
 iant, icy dress ; 
 
 But winds, and seas, and months, ah me ! 
 
 Are ghostly cold by the warmth of a lost caress ! 
 
 And, giddy and gay, 'tis few can pray, and, pray 
 ing, sorrow less. 
 
 I sit in the shadow of Egypt's Sphinx, I sit in the 
 shade, to-night, 
 
 The awful glare of the solemn stars is wrapping me 
 'round with light, 
 
 And out from the depths of the desert's gloom, 
 
 But not from the portals of the tomb, 
 
 A beautiful face has come once more, a beautiful 
 face to me,
 
 ISO MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 And the solemn stars, and the awful Sphinx, and 
 
 even the dreary sea, 
 In the years to come will be glorified, perchance 
 
 continually. 
 
 Ghostly winds on the moor to-night, a wail for the 
 
 royal past, 
 Lips which were red as rubies, and a love that 
 
 might not last, 
 For under the sands, and under the waves, there 's 
 
 many a fair form lost, 
 And the terrible sea with its tides, ah me ! 
 Without a ship can never be crossed, can never be 
 
 crossed. 
 Tropic seas have a golden glow, a glow that is 
 
 grand to see, 
 But terrible clouds come up sometimes, and winds 
 
 rage furiously, 
 And the desert sands without a guide, the desert 
 
 sands, ah me ! 
 
 Can never be crossed, and the loved is lost, 
 And the winds are wailing this out to the sea. 
 
 Hope is a dove, the poets say, Hope is a spotless 
 
 dove ; 
 But this is better, by far, to say, than that the bird 
 
 is Love. 
 We all commune with the winds and waves, and 
 
 thrill at the tempest's roar, 
 But a bird, and a dove, we take to our hearts and 
 
 cherish evermore.
 
 FINALE. l8l 
 
 But night and morn, and a beautiful face, and all 
 
 the things that be, 
 Will be lost, I know, except the soul, which will 
 
 live immortally. 
 
 Ghostly winds on the moor to-night, oh, winds, ye 
 
 will surely die, 
 And the stars, those terrible, solemn things, will fall 
 
 from the shaking sky, 
 And God from earth's remotest pole 
 Shall gather together every soul, 
 And there shall be not any more sea, 
 But everywhere awful Immensity.
 
 MY BEAUTIFUL PAST. 
 
 How the sunlight gilds the river 
 
 With the rising rays of morn ! 
 And a thousand fond emotions 
 
 In my bosom's depths are born. 
 Memory, with her wand of magic, 
 
 Brings to me the Summer gone, 
 .With the rush of Lehigh river 
 
 Sparkling in the rosy dawn. 
 
 Once again I hear the murmur 
 
 Of the winds among the pines ; 
 Once again I see the sunlight 
 
 Glimmer through the creeping vines; 
 Comes the perfume of the roses 
 
 That I wore amid my hair, 
 When, with anxious expectation, 
 
 I was looking for you there. 
 
 O, strange memory ! thus recalling 
 
 Love and trust that since have died ! 
 O, weak heart! whose tears well over 
 
 Spite the iron mask of pride ! 
 Rushes still that fair, free river, 
 
 And the sunlight gilds its waves, 
 Though both Hope and Love are sleeping 
 
 In the gloom of new-made graves.
 
 MY BEAUTIFUL PAST. 183 
 
 Still the roses bud and blossom 
 
 That I wore amid my hair ; 
 But the lips that then caressed me 
 
 Never more will make life fair. 
 
 Never will the Summer's beauty, 
 
 Or the Winter's frost and snow, 
 Bring to life the tender dreaming 
 
 That was ours not long ago. 
 Gleam of stars and bloom of roses 
 
 Are to me not what they were, 
 From the Past alone I gather 
 
 All life's frankincense and myrrh.
 
 "THE OLD, OLD STORY." 
 
 SIT down in the twilight, dear friend of mine, 
 
 And list to the story I have to tell ; 
 Though it wrings my heart, yet it shall be thine, 
 
 Since I know you have loved me long and well. 
 Have you forgot where the old Church stood, 
 
 And the chime of its bells in the morning air? 
 Ah ! have you forgotten / never could 
 
 A girl's sweet face which I once saw there ? 
 
 'Twas a Sabbath morning so bright and clear 
 
 That the birds sang psalms in the leafy trees ; 
 But a face at the door, as I drew near, 
 
 Seemed fairer than any, or all of these. 
 I never could tell, for the life of me, 
 
 How I entered the Church and sat me down ; 
 Though I heard the sermon I could but see 
 
 This beautiful girl in her humble gown. 
 
 And into my being there stole, that day, 
 
 A love that I never can erase ; 
 I know not how God, in his loving care, 
 
 E'er granted me sight of that sweet young face ; 
 For I won the love of that winsome girl, 
 
 Ah, I won her heart, Tom, but just to break ; 
 When I think of it now my brain will whirl, 
 
 I think of her now asleep or awake.
 
 " THE OLD, OLD STORY." 185 
 
 Long years have passed since the day we met, 
 
 Long years since the night we said good-by ; 
 But each day is rilled with a wild regret, 
 
 And I pray each night, Tom, that I may die. 
 O, Tom, she loved me ; you cannot know 
 
 How the sweet lips quivered beneath my kiss, 
 Nor how she told me if I should go 
 
 The earth held, for her, not a hope of bliss. 
 
 And can you believe, O Tom, my friend, 
 
 That I vowed I loved her o'er and o'er? 
 But it came, at last, to a terrible end, 
 
 And I never saw her sweet face more. 
 I left her, Tom, with a careless jest 
 
 That I might not see her again for years ; 
 Then, wild with fear, she fell on my breast, 
 
 And plead for my love through her scalding tears ; 
 
 I called her " a child ; " I was harsh and cold, 
 
 And I left and was gone for many a day ; 
 I thought to try her I wish 'twere told! 
 
 Tom, my friend, can you kneel and pray ? 
 I went at last, but I found her not; 
 
 1 found in her stead a marble form ; 
 And Tom, O Tom ! I shall ne'er forget 
 
 The chill of the lips that were once so warm.
 
 MOONLIGHT FANCIES. 
 
 THE moonlight falls in a misty flood 
 
 Adown on my chamber roof, 
 And a thousand thoughts in my busy brain 
 
 Soon are woven into woof. 
 I think I stand on Italia's shore, 
 
 And muse as the moonbeams fall 
 On the glassy sea, and the ivy fanes, 
 
 And many a ruined wall. 
 
 It kisses the brow of a fair young bride, 
 
 And sleeps in her sweet dark eyes, 
 And haloes the spot where the two kneel down, 
 
 Like a gleam from Paradise. 
 Then I think I see it pouring free 
 
 Down the classic mountain's side, 
 And it falls in a golden flood on fields 
 
 Where the heroes of earth have died. 
 
 Again I stand amid its light 
 
 As it falls on the busy street 
 Of the city of wit and fickleness, 
 
 Where fashion holds reign complete. 
 In sunny France, where the vineyards are, 
 
 And the people of dance and song,
 
 MOONLIGHT FANCIES. l8/ 
 
 And it pours o'er the Bastile a solemn sheen, 
 As in fancy' I move along. 
 
 It gleams on an old chateau, 
 
 Through its windows, ivy-grown, 
 Weirdly bright is the moonbeams' light, 
 
 As a dream that is overthrown. 
 O ! it rests on a marble brow, 
 
 On a cheek that is icy cold ; 
 On the prostrate form of a maiden fair 
 
 Who has sold her life for gold. 
 
 Then over the Alps, and far away, 
 
 Where it shines on their peaks of snow, 
 Gazing, and dreaming, and musing still. 
 
 On fancy's wild wing I go. 
 It looks in a Switzer's home, 
 
 And rests on the bright young cheek 
 Of a youth with waving locks flung back, 
 
 And a red lip fixed to speak ; 
 And his tones are clear and sweet 
 
 As his own free mountain air, 
 And his proud young face is full of grace, 
 
 Of everything bright and fair. 
 
 Away I go where the moonlight sleeps 
 
 On Hungary's sacred soil, 
 And I see it kiss, with its silver lips, 
 
 A man's brown face of toil. 
 It rests on the Austrian sabre's blade 
 
 In a soldier's stalwart hand,
 
 1 88 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 And it gleams on Vienna's towering spires 
 t As they shadow the verdant land. 
 And down by a battlement 
 
 It creeps 'mong the cannon balls, 
 Then speeds away to a pleasant home, 
 
 Where, soft as a prayer, it falls. 
 
 Far off in a Turkish harem 
 
 It peeps from the blue, bright skies, 
 And mirrors its own sweet splendor 
 
 In numberless sparkling eyes. 
 But I see it fall more softly 
 
 On a bowed, young, jetty head, 
 With a wondrous brow, and pensive eyes, 
 
 And lips where the rose has fled : 
 And the maiden murmurs, in accents low, 
 In another tongue, a tale of woe. 
 
 Again I track its footsteps 
 
 To a far Egyptian plain, 
 Where it falls in liquid glory 
 
 Like a shower of silver rain. 
 And it haloes the grand, old Pyramids, 
 
 In their mighty, solemn state, 
 And it calls up, within my spirit, 
 
 The dead, and the ancient great. 
 
 And yonder, in far Arabia, 
 It silvers the wondrous palm, 
 
 And rests on Sahara's sand waves 
 With a heavy, baptismal calm.
 
 MOONLIGHT FANCIES. 189 
 
 * 
 Then back o'er the foaming ocean, 
 
 As the billows dance in light, 
 I see it bathe the steamer, 
 
 In her onward, steady flight ; 
 And it looks in the cabin window 
 
 And wakes up the sailor boy, 
 Who has wandered away, and, homesick, 
 
 Was dreaming of future joy. 
 
 Down the Rocky Mountain passes 
 
 It shines with a cheering ray, 
 And, tangled amid the forest, 
 
 It waits for the coming day ; 
 And so through the solemn minutes, 
 
 While 1 rest from my spirit's flight, 
 Over the earth the Moonlight 
 
 Is clasped in the arms of Night.
 
 THE INEVITABLE. 
 
 BY and by we shall be parted, 
 
 By and by you'll go from me ; 
 You will go, my love, my darling, 
 
 Leaving me but Memory. 
 Very blissful are the moments 
 
 When you take me to your heart ; 
 Wretched, filled with dreary longing, 
 
 WJien they bid us go apart. 
 
 O, my love, my life, my darling, 
 
 How am I to live and do, 
 When the thorny road I travel 
 
 Is not walked along with you? 
 How am I to bear the burden 
 
 Of the heavy years and slow ? 
 Who will interpose and save me 
 
 From the cold world's cruel blow? 
 
 When the roses bloomed last summer, 
 
 Where the river, rushing, ran, 
 Facing fearfully the future, 
 
 Then this love for you began. 
 And again I tell thee, darling, 
 
 That this love will live for aye ; 
 Lips, nor eyes, nor white hands' clasping, 
 
 E'er will lead my heart astray.
 
 THE INEVITABLE. 
 
 Every thought, emotion, passion, 
 
 Lives in me but by your word ; 
 Life, to me, has deeper meaning 
 
 Since your breath its currents stirred. 
 But, alas ! you'll leave me, darling, 
 
 Not forget, that cannot be ! 
 For though interest bind you elsewhere, 
 
 Still your heart must cling to me.
 
 THE ROSY WINE CUP. 
 
 O, TOUCH not the rosy wine cup, 
 
 Though its brilliance should charm thine eye, 
 For he who shall drink its contents 
 
 Has opened a way to die. 
 Not die as the world might call it, 
 
 But die to the good and true, 
 And blunt all the fine perceptions 
 
 That ever ennobled you. 
 
 There is power in the rosy wine cup 
 
 To send through the heart and brain 
 Bewildering thrills of pleasure, 
 
 Dispelling the bosom's pain. 
 But 'twill only return more sharply 
 
 When the fire of the wine has passed, 
 For the dreams that it may awaken 
 
 Are only too bright to last. 
 
 O, trust not your power of keeping 
 
 Yourself from the shoals before ! 
 Your strength, in an evil moment, 
 
 May leave you forevermore ; 
 For the wine cup has conquered millions, 
 
 And the loftiest minds of earth 
 Have sunk to the lowest level 
 
 From a glass in an hour of mirth.
 
 THE ROSY WINE CUP. 193 
 
 There are desolate homes where the demon 
 
 Of drink has destroyed their light, 
 There are hearts that have loved too fondly, 
 
 And bowed 'neath the wine cup's blight ; 
 Put aside, then, the sparkling poison, 
 
 For though danger seems far away, 
 You will bless, in some happy future, 
 
 The dawn of your Temperance day.
 
 TO DICK. 
 
 BECAUSE I hold your lightest word 
 
 Of greater value far than gold, 
 Because I love you, would I hear, 
 
 Each day, the story never old. 
 We never tire of sunset skies 
 
 Which crimson with a radiance rare, 
 We never weary of sweet sounds, 
 
 And sights of earth, divinely fair. 
 
 And fairer than the lily's snows, 
 
 More lovely than the diamond's light, 
 Are words made eloquent with love, 
 
 And looks which gild the darkest night. 
 The human heart, for aye, will yearn 
 
 For that which love will yearn to give ; 
 Then chide me not because I crave 
 
 Affection's words each day I live.
 
 SONG OF THE WANDERER. 
 
 I SING on the mountains, I chant by the sea ; 
 There are beauty and love for all beings but me ; 
 I scale the white peaks that are covered with snow, 
 I traverse the valleys that nestle below ; 
 I sail down the lengths of the rivers that wind 
 Like bands of blue ribbon, but naught do I find 
 Of beauty that cheers me, or love that 's my own, 
 As I wander disheartened from zone unto zone. 
 
 I gaze on the glaciers, so massive and bright, 
 As they roll on their course in their wondrous might ; 
 I watch for the gleam of the earliest star 
 Which gems the bright hills of an island afar, 
 Where the breezes are fragrant with ordorous balm, 
 And the ocean has sunk to the sleepiest calm ; 
 But naught do I find that will answer to me, 
 Save the wild, weary moan of the slumbering sea. 
 
 I wander through halls where the rich and the proud 
 Make merry the days with a merriment loud ; 
 I tread my way slowly along the full street 
 And stare at the faces and forms that I meet ; 
 I dance off the hours 'mid a gay laughing crowd, 
 Or bend with a tear over many a shroud, 
 But nothing of pity or love is my own, 
 For I am forever and ever alone.
 
 196 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 Tis little to me though the sky may be blue, 
 Since I cannot believe that one being is true ; 
 The flowers may be painted in colors most rare, 
 I look at them sadly, for what do / care ? 
 And music may yield most voluptuous sound, 
 While earth with a garland of beauty is crowned ; 
 I know not, I care not for sound or for sight, 
 Since I wander alone from the morn till the night
 
 THE PAST. 
 
 THE Past, O the Past ! it wakes in the soul 
 A thousand strong feelings beyond our control ; 
 It thrills through the breast like a magical spell, 
 And brings up the friends we have loved but too well. 
 
 A moonbeam may stray o'er the path which we tread, 
 And bring up the face and the form of our dead ; 
 The fragrance of roses may bring back the tone 
 Of a beautiful song when the singer is gone. 
 
 How oft, like a shock, slight things bring to mind 
 The hours and the days we have left far behind ; 
 Bright hours that were steeped in a halo of bliss, 
 Whose remembrance but deepens the darkness of 
 this. 
 
 O, the beautiful Past! when the present shall be 
 Engulfed in the billows of Time's restless sea, 
 With the same fond regret we shall dream and de 
 plore 
 That the dear vanished hours will return nevermore. 
 
 When my years shall be more, and my love shall 
 
 be less, 
 
 When I call to mind calmly lost kiss and caress, 
 Yet still in my heart, while its life pulses beat, 
 Shall some hours of the past be redeemingly sweet.
 
 OCTOBER. 
 
 OCTOBER sat on her gorgeous throne, 
 
 With her lustrous eyes and her yellow hair, 
 And heard, with a glad and glowing smile, 
 
 Each sound that rose on the pulsing air. 
 The gracious folds of her royal robe 
 
 Were gemmed with pearls of the sparkling light ; 
 Her cheeks were red with a blush of flame, 
 
 And warm winds danced on her bosom white. 
 
 The sun went down, and his splendor fell 
 
 In long bright waves o'er the year's sweet bride ; 
 Then eyelids drooped, and the soft hands grasped 
 
 A harp which the month of March had tried. 
 'Twas then that October sang a song 
 
 Which sank down deep in the hearts of men, 
 For lovers fled to their trysting trees, 
 
 And poets took up the waiting pen. 
 
 I am crowned with the wealth of the summer hours, 
 I am drunken with draughts of the rosy wine ; 
 
 I have breathed the breath of the fragrant flowers, 
 And the best of the world it has all been mine. 
 
 I have eaten and drank through the long bright 
 
 hours, 
 I have eaten the fruit, I have drank the w.ine ;
 
 OCTOBER. 199 
 
 But I feel chill winds in the perfumed bowers, 
 And I know that the chill has a sound and sign. 
 
 I have dallied with love that is fresh and free, 
 
 I have pillowed my head on the Summer's breast; 
 The earth, and the sky, and the winds, and the sea, 
 
 Have sung to me songs as I sank to rest. 
 From morn till night, from the night till the morn, 
 
 I have lived out a life-time of wild excess ; 
 Though the month which will come from the storms 
 is born, 
 
 Yet the poets and lovers will love it less. 
 
 I shall die, I shall die as a Queen of old ; 
 
 Death comes in a sleepy and sensuous form ; 
 I am crowned, I am clad with the yellow gold, 
 
 And the world's applause cometh up like a storm. 
 Sleep has flown Death comes, but it brings to me 
 bliss, 
 
 For poets, and painters, and lovers will mourn, 
 As I breathe out my life in a long, sweet kiss, 
 
 And afar through Eternity's gates am borne.
 
 THE VOLUNTEER'S WIFE TO HER 
 HUSBAND. 
 
 HENRY, dearest, roaming over 
 
 Soil so far from wife and home, 
 Battling for our banner's glory, 
 
 And the ages yet to come, 
 Do not think I e'er forget thee, 
 
 That my bosom's love grows cold ; 
 For within its holiest recess 
 
 Lives for thee a love untold. 
 
 You, afar, perchance are dreaming 
 
 Sadly of your wife and child, 
 While your ear drinks in the thunder 
 
 Of the battle fierce and wild. 
 But however fondly dreaming, 
 
 Dream you ne'er more fond than I ; 
 My devotion for you, dearest, 
 
 Is a feeling ne'er will die. 
 
 O, my husband, should you ever 
 
 Stand amid the battle's strife, 
 Know my lips are ever breathing 
 
 Prayers for your too precious life. 
 God protect you in the battle, 
 
 As beneath our Flag you fight, 
 And return you home in safety 
 
 To my arms some summer night.
 
 BY THE SEA. 
 
 ALONE by the sounding sea I sit, 
 
 And my love he has gone afar from me ; 
 So rage ye winds, and war ye waves, 
 
 In your own grand majesty. 
 I saw his barque, with the sails all set, 
 
 Steer proudly past the harbor's bar ; 
 I waved him adieu, but my eyes were wet, 
 
 For he followed the light of a false, false star. 
 
 The fishermen come and they look at me, 
 
 As I sit on a rock and shade my eyes ; 
 For somehow they know and they pity me 
 
 That my love was false as the summer skies. 
 How grandly the great waves rise and foam 
 
 O'er the track which his ship left long ago ! 
 E'en the fisherman sighs as he seeks his home 
 
 And leaves me with face like the winter's snow. 
 
 They say the ocean has treacherous deeps, 
 
 That sirens sit on the rocks and sing; 
 Yet this is not why I shall wait and weep 
 
 For a love which the tide will never bring. 
 There are tropic lands when the sea is passed, 
 
 And a thousand nameless things to dread, 
 But what are any or all of these 
 
 To her who mourns for a love long dead !
 
 TO A LADY. 
 
 FROM HER LOVER. 
 
 LADY, of the pure, pale face, 
 And eyes of liquid light, 
 
 1 am quite sure I lost, for you, 
 My heart, on New Year's night ; 
 
 For from your face outshone a soul 
 
 That elevated mine ; 
 How could I then refuse to bow 
 
 Before so pure a shrine ? 
 
 I have, e'en now, within my heart, 
 
 A picture of thy smile ; 
 Methought that none was e'er so sweet, 
 
 Or quite so free from guile. 
 A hovering halo seemed to wreathe 
 
 Around your regal head : 
 Your lips seemed whispering of heaven, 
 
 Though not a word you said. 
 
 Yes, lady, 'mong the gathered crowd, 
 Your face seemed purest, best ; 
 
 I'm sure if one could win your love, 
 That love would bring sweet rest. 
 
 But no ! the thought of earthly love 
 Is not for such as thou,
 
 TO A LADY. 203 
 
 Else would not such angelic grace 
 Beam o'er that spotless brow. 
 
 Then pardon, lady, pardon this 
 
 Perhaps unworthy rhyme : 
 Yet know one heart will treasure thee 
 
 Throughout the years of time ; 
 And should we ever meet again, 
 
 As on that New Year's night, 
 Pray bend on me, with kinder glance, 
 
 Those eyes of liquid light.
 
 FRIGHTENED. 
 
 TELL me, tell me, man of science, 
 
 Am I blind forever, say ? 
 Shall I no more see the faces 
 
 I have loved for many a day ? 
 Are the fields, so green and pleasant, 
 
 Shut from me for evermore ? 
 Shall I no more see the river 
 
 And its dark-green bending shore ? 
 
 Has God shut the blue sky from me, 
 
 With its panoply of stars ? 
 And destroyed my sight forever, 
 
 And disfigured me with scars ? 
 I who worship beauty madly 
 
 In the heavens, the earth, the sea, 
 Tell me truly, without feigning, 
 
 Is it ever shut from me ? 
 
 Morning's beauty, evening's glory, 
 Shall I nevermore behold ? 
 
 Never gaze with olden rapture 
 On their purple, blue, and gold? 
 
 I shall smell the sweet, sweet roses, 
 But will they be shut from sight ?
 
 FRIGHTENED. 205 
 
 Can I be content in living 
 
 When the day has turned to night? 
 
 Blind ! O, word of wretched meaning ! 
 
 Do the blind not suffocate ? 
 My bewildered brain will scarcely 
 
 Comprehend this awful fate. 
 Will your love outlive this judgment ? 
 
 I shall need it so much more 
 When I'm blind to what the future 
 
 Darkly holds for me in store. 
 
 I remember every footpath, 
 
 Every blossom, every tree, 
 Where, in days of light and loving, 
 
 I have strayed alone with thee. 
 Then you praised my eyes' rare beauty, 
 
 When I bent them upon you ; 
 Darling, will you now be tender, 
 
 Just as kind to me, and true? 
 
 Ah ! I'm weeping as I'm thinking 
 
 All my pleading may be vain ; 
 Did the doctor tell you, truly, 
 
 That I should not see again?' 
 " No," you say ? O, word of gladness ! 
 
 I shall see your face once more ; 
 I've not lost your love, my darling 
 
 We'll be happy as of yore. 
 
 Yet, beloved one, I've been thinking, 
 Lying lonely, shut from sight,
 
 206 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 That I'd sooner give my eyesight 
 
 Than the love you pledged one night. 
 
 I could bear the darkness calmly, 
 Meek and patient as a child ; 
 
 'Twas the thought that I might lose you 
 Which has made me nearly wild.
 
 THE WANDERER'S CHRISTMAS. 
 
 'Tis Christmas night in cot and hall, 
 
 'Tis Christmas night at sea, 
 'Tis Christmas night, o'er all the earth, 
 
 For every one but me. 
 I see the village lights that gleam 
 
 From many happy homes, 
 I know that there are smiles of love, 
 
 For all save one who roams. 
 
 'Tis Christmas night among the rich, 
 
 'Tis Christmas with the poor, 
 For all have some to love and greet 
 
 Save I who walk the moor. 
 I know the Christmas trees are hung 
 
 With presents, fair to see, 
 Bestowed by loving hearts and hands 
 
 On every one but me. 
 
 Wide open swing the castle gates, 
 
 And troops of guests go in, 
 But I am shut from happiness 
 
 As if it were a sin. 
 Gay groups of lovers come and go 
 
 Beneath the starlit sky, 
 But I, I wander to and fro, 
 
 And wander but to die.
 
 2O8 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 
 
 I sit upon the marble steps 
 
 Of stately homes of wealth, 
 And when the door swings wide 
 
 I look on merry youth and health. 
 The skies flame out with northern lights, 
 
 But bitter is the cold ; 
 O, would that I might walk, to-night, 
 
 The city paved with gold. 
 
 My tattered clothes, amid the blast, 
 
 Blow wildly here and there, 
 And though my lips are stiff and blue, 
 
 I strive to frame a prayer. 
 This is the night when Christ came down 
 
 To save a world of woe ; 
 But ah ! it brings no joy to me 
 
 Amid this blinding snow. 
 
 I've toiled so long without repay 
 
 That I am weak and faint ; 
 And yet, to any ear on earth, 
 
 I dare not make complaint. 
 O, rich men, sitting in your halls, 
 
 O, women, proud and fair, 
 Pray God that you may never know 
 
 What I am called to bear! 
 
 Your lights send out upon the snow 
 
 A bright and cheery ray, 
 Which is but mockery to one 
 
 Who has nowhere to stay.
 
 THE WANDERER'S CHRISTMAS. 2OQ 
 
 t 
 
 I trusted night would cool the pulse 
 
 That beats so hot and high ; 
 It will ; I hear it whispered low 
 
 That I am soon to die. 
 
 I wonder if 'tis Christmas night 
 
 Above, beyond the blue ; 
 And are there any presents there 
 
 For me, as well as you ? 
 Ah, me, my pulse is beating slow, 
 
 I can no longer roam ; 
 O Christ ! this Christmas night take Thou 
 
 The weary wanderer home. 
 
 Ah, list ! I hear the angels sing, 
 
 I see their harps of gold, 
 All pain is gone, no longer I 
 
 Can feel the bitter cold. 
 The gates swing wide, I see a face 
 
 Bend to me, dazzling bright : 
 Praise God ! the wanderer will be 
 
 In heaven this Christmas night.
 
 THE WHEEL OF LIFE. 
 
 BEHOLD the world goes on and on, 
 
 Behold the world goes over ! 
 There are some who live in thistles, 
 
 And some who live in clover, 
 And one who was at first a friend 
 
 May prove at last a lover. 
 
 How strangely doth the world move on, 
 With mingled joy and sorrow ! 
 
 Some hearts there are beat hopefully 
 And wait a glad to-morrow, 
 
 And there are some who never hope, 
 But always trouble borrow. 
 
 'Tis e'er the same with high and low, 
 With prince and toiling peasant ; 
 
 One class has much, and one has naught, 
 And neither find all pleasant, 
 
 But most are looking on and on 
 Beyond the fleeting present. 
 
 So moves the world in sun and shade, 
 With change at every station ; 
 
 The artist-poet paints alone, 
 The world lives his creation, 
 
 But artist, subject, all, alike 
 Must serve their own probation.
 
 THE WHEEL OF LIFE. 211 
 
 Adieu, good friends ; when all is done, 
 
 And we our work have ended, 
 However hopeful we have been 
 
 That grace and good were blended, 
 Some clearer light will show to us 
 
 Much we could wish amended.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
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