388 

 BONAPARTE. 



(from the FRENCH OP DE LAMARTINE.) 



High on a rock, washed by the plaintive tide, 

 The seaman, far upon the ocean wide, 



A marble tomb descries ; 

 Time hath not yet embrowned that narrow stone ; 

 Where, from beneath a wild-wove garland, prone 



A broken sceptre lies 1 



There sleeps — no name 1 — ask of the wondering earth 

 That name ! Its blood-writ characters stand forth, 



From Scheldt to Cedar's height ; 

 Graven on bronze — on stone — on bosoms brave, 

 Aye ! on the tortured breast of many a slave 



He trod beneath his feet ! 



Since they of old, the two whose names are sung 

 From age to age, hath none like thine been flung 



From the loud thunder far ; 

 No human step, o'er all the earth's broad space. 

 Hath stampt her bosom with so bold a trace, 



And yet — arrested there 1 



And there thou art 1 — three infant steps the span t 

 Thy manes breathe no murmur of the man, 



Which hostile steps tread o'er 1 

 See, on that warlike brow the insect sleeps 1 — 

 Nature a deep and mournful silence keeps, 



Save the dull ocean's roar I 



But fear thou not, perturbed and restless shade ! 

 To break upon the stillness of the dead. 



Ne'er hath the lyre been strung ; 

 Death is the refuge of the brave ; — and few 

 Would seek beyond, thy destiny to view ; — 



Yet must the truth be sung 1 



Shrouded alike thy cradle and thy tomb 



With darkness 1 As the lightning didst thou come ! 



Victor ! — without a name 1 

 Thus, the imperious Nile, whose fertile waves, 

 Unnamed, 'mid Memnon's solitary caves. 



To polished Memphis came. 

 Altars o'erthrown, — kingdoms and sceptres void ; — 

 When Victory, — her wings extended wide, — 



Proclaimed thee hero I — king I 

 An age, o'erwhelming in its headlong flight 

 Morals, kings, altars ;— paused before thy might, 



Recoiling towards its spring I 



Nor was thy warfare all with human foes ; — 

 Dark forms of error round thy footsteps rose, 



And fell beneath thy weight ; 

 Great names thy sport, thy tools I— scoffer sublime I 

 Like holy altar vessels, — seized by crime, 



Thy purposes to meet I 



As in a maddening access of despair 



Th' awakened age his fettered arms lays bare. 



Invoking — liberty I 

 At once a hero from the dust stands forth ; — 

 Strikes with his sceptre — wakes the dreaming earth, — 



A bold reality ! 



Ah 1 had thy fated genius led thee now, 

 To plant the sacred lilies on that brow. 

 Which justly claimed them 1 



