Then fell Napoleon, Eagle of his clime,
By Fate's fell shaft, from yon proud heaven sublime:
And when he fell, France knew no keener woe,
Then the deep piercing of that mortal blow.
The sweet land drooped, and sickened in her grief—
That hope so happy, had given truth so brief—
That Fate's fell shaft her glorious Bird had slain,
No more o'er conquered earth to soar again.
But not at once Napoleon breathes his last—
More woes must come—if now the worst be past.