From the French Throne.
Famed Bonaparte, in regal pride,
Put slighted Josephine aside,
And wedded an imperial bride,
Of fortune sure.
But when he droop'd, and when he fell,
(I took my pen and mark'd it well)
This jilt of jilts, this austrian belle,
No longer styled him, Mon Amour;
Which means, I think, my dearest heart,
My love!—but lovers often part
When friendship does not point the dart,
Nor fix the flame.
And warning, hence, let others take,
Nor love's decree for interest break;
In marriage, too much lies at stake
To slight its claim.
Retreating to the tuscan coast,
An empire, wife, and fortune lost,
He found the throne a dangerous post,
And wars a cheat;
Where all, who play their game too deep,
Must hazard life, and discord reap,
Or thrown from grandeur's giddy steep,
Lament their fate.
Napoleon, with an empty chest!
An austrian princess must detest;
And yet, she wears upon her breast
The painted toy;[A]
[A] A miniature picture of the late emperor Napoleon.—Freneau's note.