noon of thy fame, and the proud blaze of glory,
Dark fate sent her mandate,
and forced thee away—
As if dreading thy name, in the page of her story,
Thou dread wonder of worlds—of
kings the dismay.
On a wild barren rock in the bosom of ocean,
nought but the sea-fowl can willingly rest,
Thou art chained from the struggles of war’s
And left to such pangs as
may harass thy breast.
Yet—better, by far, thou hadst sunk in the
And closed thy career in
the midst of the brave,
clashing of arms, and war’s deadly rattle,
Than walk down in silence
to Helena’s grave.
Thou maker of kings, and dethroner of tyrants—
Thou greatest of mortals
this earth has yet known—
Not even the eye of the proudest aspirants
look at the crowns made so easily thine own!
Yet, France must remember—let Bourbons deny
If gratitude touch but one
pulse of her heart—
Thou hast been her friend through both tumult and
Though malice and envy their
slander impart. [Page 162]
But now, at the foot of a low bending willow,
Shut out from the sound
of the war-trumpet’s breath,
In the calm of repose—with a rock for thy
Thou sleepest in silence—the
long sleep of death.
Then, where are the trophies that victory brought
where are the diadems dragged from each throne,
When nations and kings with devotion have sought
Greatest monarch, and guide
of the world alone?
’Tis all but a phantom—the dream of
That flits from the circle
where life makes a stand—
serves but to show, all the pleasures had in it
Are not worth one half of
the cares they command! [Page 163]