Glen Collection of printed music > Printed music > British minstrel, and musical and literary miscellany

296
THE BRITISH MINSTREL; AND
then we can — that cursed hole there above," said he;
" I could not have believed that the curtains had
been so tor — ."
" That hole shall remain as long as I am here,"
exclaimed I with enthusiasm, interrupting him;
"never would I forget that through that hole T first
saw sunshine at Rosenvik!" — Tlie Neighbours, trans-
lated from tlie Swedish of Frederika Bremer, by Mrs.
Homitt.
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1st
A BOAT, A BOAT-
CATCH FOR THREE VOICES.
2d
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boat, a boat, habte to the Fer - rj,
3d
For we'll go
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to be
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To laugh and quaff and drink old Slier -ry.
THE TOMB OF NAPOLEON.
BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.
" The moon of St. Helena shone out, and there we
saw the face of Napoleon's sepulchre, characterless,
uninscribed,"
And who shall write thine epitaph? — thou man
Of mystery and might ! — shall orphan hands
Inscribe it with their fathers' broken swords?
Or the warm trickling of the widow's tear
Channel it slowly in the sullen rock.
As the keen torture of the water drop
Doth wear the sentenc'd brain? shall countless
ghosts
Arise from Hades, and in lurid flame
With shadowy finger trace thine eifigy,
Who sent them to their audit, unannealed.
And with but that brief space for shrift or prayer
Given at the cannon's mouth !
Thou, who didst sit
Like eagle on the apex of the globe.
And hear the murmur of its conquered tribes,
. As chirp the weak-voic'd nations of the grass.
Why art thou sepulchred in yon far isle.
Yon little speck, which scarce the mariner
Descries 'mid ocean's foam ?
Thou, who didslhew
Rough pathway for thy host, above the cloud.
Guiding their footsteps o'er the frost-work crown
Of the thron'd Alps — why sleep's! thou thus un-
mark'd
Even by such slight memento as the hind
Carves on his own coarse tombstone?
Bid the throng
Who pour'd thee incense as Olympian Jove,
Breathing thy thunders on tlie battle field,
Return, and deck thy monument. Those forms.
O'er the wide valleys of red slaughter spread.
From pole to tropic, and from zone to zone.
Heed not thy clarion-call. Yet, should they rise,
As in the vision that the prophet saw,
And each dry bone its sever'd fellow find.
Piling their pillar'd dust, as erst they gave
Their souls for thee, might not the pale stars deem
A second time the puny pride of man
Did creep by stealth upon its Babel-stairs,
To dwell with them? But, here unwept thou art,
Like a dead lion in its thicket lair.
With neither living man nor spectre lone
To trace thine epitaph.
Invoke the climes
That served as playthings in thy desperate game
Of mad ambition, or their treasures strew'd
To pay thy reckoning, till gaunt famine fed
Upon their vitals.
France! who gave so free
Thy life-stream to his cup of wine, and saw
That purple vintage shed o'er half the earth —
Write the first line, if thou hast blood to spare;
rhon, too, whose pride adoni'd dead Ceasar's tomb
And pour'd high requiem o'er the tyrant train
That rul'd thee, to thy cost — lend us thine arts
Of sculpture and of classic eloquence.
To grace his obsequies — at whose dark frown
Thine ancient spirit quail'd; and to the list
Of mutilated kings, who gleaned their meat
'Neath Agag's table, add the name of Rome.
Turn, Austria! iron-brow'd and hard of heart,
And on his monument, to whom thou gav'st
In anger, battle, and in craft, a bride.
Grave Austerlitz, and fiercely turn away.
Rouse Prussia from her trance, with Jena's
name.
As the rein'd war-horse at the trumpet blast.
And take her witness to that fame which soars
O'er him of Blacedon, and shames the vaunt
Of Scandinavia's madman.
From the shades
Of letter'd ease, oh Germany! come forth.
With pen of fire, and from thy troubled scroll,
Such as thou spread'st at Leipsic, gather lints
Of deeper character than bold romance