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His brow was wet, his hair upraised,
His hands were clench'd, his look was 'mazed,
The empress trembled as she gazed.
At Palm's dread spectre doth he quake?
Comes D'Enghein thus his soul to shake?
No: to the consciences of kings
Flattery her deadly opiate brings;
Though doom'd untried by impious men,
Yet murder shall be justice then.
In all his pomp of power array'd,
The monarch deems himself betray'd ;
Hemm'd in by guards and armed bands,
Chain'd in the senate-hall he stands;
All whom he hated, all he loved
Were there, and all his fall approved.
E'en the betrayer's self stood nigh,
With jeering tongue and scornful eye,
And thrice he strove to strike him dead,
And thrice the grinning traitor fled ;
And Frenchmen, thrice, with fickle breath,
Shouted “ Napoleon to the death !"
That horror's past : Memory again
Binds Fancy in her spell-fraught chain.
The vision changed, and changed his look,
Though still his form with chillness shook,
Though still uprose his coal-black hair,
'T was anguish still—but not despair.
He seem'd through realms of frost to stray,
Where endless forests barr'd his way ;
Forests of pines, whose snow mass made
In noontide clear a midnight shade.
A sense of solitary care,
Silence and death-like cold were there,
And still he thought at every step,
His jaded steed was forced to leap:
Something he could not move nor kill,
Some fell obstruction met him still.
At length full in the monarch's way,
A Gallic soldier dying lay;
Napoleon stopp'd and strove to cheer;
The warrior's death-groan met his ear,
The warrior's death-glance met his eye,
That groan, that glance he could not fly!
A bitter curse they seem'd to shroud.
He gallop'd on, he shouted loud,
But still the groan he cannot fly,
But still the glance is in his eye.
“Awake! awake!" and at her touch
The hero started from his couch ;
Awhile he stood and shook with dread;
“ 'T is but a dream!" at length he said ; .
“ 'Tis but a bubble of the brain !"
He saidyet fear'd to sleep again.
I LOOK'd upon his brow,-no sign
Of guilt or fear was there;
He stood as proud by that death-shrine
As even o'er despair
He had a power; in his eye
There was a quenchless energy,
A spirit that could dare
The deadliest form that death could take,
And dare it for the daring's sake.
He stood, the fetters on his hand,
He raised them haughtily ;
And had that grasp been on the brand,
It could not wave on high
With freer pride than it waved now.
Around he look'd with changeless brow
On many a torture nigh-
The rack, the chain, the axe, the wheel,
And, worst of all, his own red steel.
I saw him once before; he rode
Upon a coal-black steed,
And tens of thousands throng'd the road,
And bade their warrior speed.
His helm, his breastplate were of gold,
And graved with many a dent, that told
Of many a soldier's deed ;
The sun shone on his sparkling mail,
And danced his snow-plume on the gale.
But now he stood, chain'd and alone,
The headsman by his side ;
The plume, the helm, the charger gone;
The sword, that had defied
The mightiest, lay broken near,
And yet no sign or sound of fear
Came from that lip of pride;
And never king or conqueror's brow
Wore higher look than his did now.
He bent beneath the headsman's stroke
With an uncover'd eye;
A wild shout from the numbers broke
Who throng'd to see him die.
It was a people's loud acclaim,
The voice of anger and of shame,
A nation's funeral cry-
Rome's wail above her only son,
Her patriot--and her latest one.
THE CHRISTIAN VIRGIN
TO HER APOSTATE LOVER.
Oh lost to faith, to peace, to Heaven!
Canst thou a recreant be
To Him whose life for thine was given,
Whose cross endured for them?
Canst thou for earthly joys resign
A love immortal, pure, divine
Yet link thy plighied truth to mine,
And cleave unchanged to me?
Thou canst not-and 't is breathed in vain
Thy sophistry of love :
Though not in pride or cold disdain
Thy falsehood I reprove;
Inly my heart may bleedbut yet
Mine is no weak-no vain regret;
Thy wrongs to me I might forget
But not to Him above.
Cease then thy fond impassion'd vow,
In happier hours so dear;
(No virgin pride restrains me now)
I must not turn to hear; For still my erring heart might prove Too weak to spurn thy profter'd love; And tears—though feign'd and false-might move,
And prayers, though insincere.
But no! the tie so firmly bound
Is torn asunder now;
How deep, that sudden wrench may wound,
It recks not to avow;
Go thon to fortune and to fame;
I sink to sorrow-suffering-shame-
Yet think, when glory gilds thy name,
I would not be as thou.
Thou canst not light or wavering deem
The bosom all thine own;
Thou know'st, in joy's enlivening peam
Or fortune's adverse frown,
My pride, my bliss had been to share
Thine hopes; to soothe thine hours of care;
With thee the martyr's cross to bear,
Or win the martyr's crown,
'Tis o'er; but never from my heart
Shall time thine image blot;
The dreams of other days depart;
Thou shalt not be forgot;
And never in the suppliant sigh
Pour'd forth to Him who rules the sky,
Shall mine own name be breathed on high,
And thine remember'd not.
Farewell! and oh! may he whose love
Endures though man rebel,
In mercy yet thy guilt reprove;
Thy darkening clouds dispel:
Where'er thy wandering steps decline
My fondest prayers-nor only mine ;-
The aid of Israel's God be thine ;
And in his name-Farewell !
Rev. T. DALE.
ENGLAND'S DEAD. Son of the Ocean-isle!
Where sleep your mighty Dead ? Show me what high and holy pile
Is rear'd o'er Glory's bed. Go, stranger! track the deep,
Free, free the white sail spread! Wave may not foam, nor wild wind sweep,
Where rest not England's Dead.
On Egypt's burning plains,
By the pyramid o'ersway'd,
With fearful power the noonday reigns,
And the palm-trees yield no shade:
But let the angry sun
From Heaven look fiercely red, Unfelt by those whose fight is done!
There slumber England's Dead.