76
poems.
Safe from the blighting hand of Time,
From sin's rude touch secure,
It blooms in that most holy clime,—
The fadeless and the pure.
From sin's rude touch secure,
It blooms in that most holy clime,—
The fadeless and the pure.
THE LAST WORDS OF THE SON OF NAPOLEON BONAPARTE.
"A vingt et un ans mourir sans gloire, quand l'epee que je tiens fait l'Europe trembler."
To die? What strangely awful spell
Those low-breathed accents shed,
Of early blighted hopes to tell,
Of dreams forever fled!
Too early am I called to go
From earth's bright things away,
Ere Glory yet my soul may know,
Or mid Fame's laurels stray.
Those low-breathed accents shed,
Of early blighted hopes to tell,
Of dreams forever fled!
Too early am I called to go
From earth's bright things away,
Ere Glory yet my soul may know,
Or mid Fame's laurels stray.
Ay, I have lived: but none may yield
The victor's triumph praise:
No conquering hosts on battle-field
Their glorious song may raise.
Napoleon's son! Earth's glittering things
To me were all in vain;
Where is the voice, whose homage brings
One proud, triumphant strain?
The victor's triumph praise:
No conquering hosts on battle-field
Their glorious song may raise.
Napoleon's son! Earth's glittering things
To me were all in vain;
Where is the voice, whose homage brings
One proud, triumphant strain?
