NAPOLEON'S GRAVE.

BY R. H. WILDE, Of Georgia.

Faint and sad was the moon-beam's smile,
Sullen the moan of the dying wave,
Hoarse the wind in St. Helen's isle,
As I stood by the side of NAPOLEON'S GRAVE.
And is it here that the Hero lies,
Whose name has shaken the earth with dread?
And is this all that the earth supplies?
A stone his pillow—the turf his bed!
Is such the moral of human life?
Are these the limits of glory's reign?
Have oceans of blood and an age of strife,
A thousand battles, been all in vain?
Is nothing left of his victories now
But legions broken—a sword in rust—
A crown that cumbers a dotard's brow—
A name and a requiem?—dust to dust!
Of all the Chieftains whose thrones he reared,
Were there none whom kindness or faith could bind?
Of all the Monarchs whose crowns he spared,
Had none one spark of his Roman mind?
Did PRUSSIA cast no repentant glance?
Did AUSTRIA shed no remorseful tear,
When ENGLAND'S FAITH, and thine HONOR, FRANCE,
And thy FRIENDSHIP, RUSSIA, were blasted here?
No!—Holy leagues, like the heathen Heaven,
Ungodlike shrunk from the giant's shock,
And glorious TITAN—the unforgiven—
Was doomed to his Vulture and chains and rock.
* * * * *
And who were the gods that decreed thy doom!
A German Cæsar—a Prussian Sage,
The Dandy Prince of a counting room,
And a Russian Greek of the middle age!
* * * * *
Men called thee Despot, and called thee true;
But the laurel was earned that bound thy brow;
And of all who wore it, alas! how few
Were as free from treason and guilt as thou!
* * * * *
Shame to thee Gaul! and thy faithless horde!
Where was the oath which thy soldiers swore?
Fraud still lurks in the Gown—but the Sword
Was never so false to its trust before!
Where was thy vet'rans boast that day
"The old guard dies," but it "never yields!"
Oh! for one heart like the brave Desaix,
One Phalanx like those of thine early fields!
But no! no! no! it was FREEDOM'S charm
Gave them the courage of more than men;
You broke the magic that nerved each arm,
Though you were invincible only then!
* * * * *

1823.

For the Southern Literary Messenger.

A SONG OF THE SEASONS.

BY ZARRY ZYLE.

Methought I heard a whispering on the strings
Of hidden harps, in airy form that play,
And lend their voice to fair imaginings,
And wake young thoughts which in their cradles lay.
I wished to set the prisoned minstrels free,
Like liberated Ariels to sing,
And lend a voice to all that eye could see,
From the first dawn of the green light of spring,
To the last lowering sweep of winter's stormy wing.
William Naylor's MSS.