BY THOMAS CAMPBELL.
I love contemplating—apart
From all his homicidal glory—
The traits that soften to our heart
Napoleon's story.
'Twas when his banners at Boulogne,
Armed in our island every freeman,
His navy chanced to capture one
Poor British seaman.
They suffered him,—I know not how,
Unprisoned on the shore to roam;
And aye was bent his longing brow
On England's home.
His eye, methinks, pursued the flight
Of birds to Britain, half-way over,
With envy—they could reach the white
Dear cliffs of Dover.
A stormy midnight watch, he thought,
Than this sojourn would have been dearer,
If but the storm his vessel brought
To England nearer.
At last, when care had banished sleep,
He saw one morning, dreaming, doating,
An empty hogshead from the deep
Come shoreward floating.
He hid it in a cave, and wrought
The livelong day, laborious, lurking,
Until he launched a tiny boat,
By mighty working.
Heaven help us! 'twas a thing beyond
Description wretched: such a wherry,
Perhaps, ne'er ventured on a pond,
Or crossed a ferry.
For ploughing in the salt-sea field,
It would have made the boldest shudder;
Untarred, uncompassed, and unkeeled,—
No sail—no rudder.