O! all who knew him lov'd him,
For with his mighty mind,
He bore himself so meekly,
His heart it was so kind!
His wildly warbling melodies,
The storms that round them roll,
Are types of the simplicity
And grandeur of his soul.
Though years of ceaseless suffering
Had worn him to a shade,
So patient was his spirit,
No wayward plaint he made.
E'en death itself seem'd loath to scare
His victim pure and mild;
And stole upon him quietly
As slumber o'er a child.
Weep, for the word is spoken--
Mourn, for the knell hath knoll'd--
The master chord is broken,
And the master's hand is cold!
The master chord is broken,
And the master's hand is cold!
PLANCHE.
* * * * *
YOUNG NAPOLEON.
_(For the Mirror.)_
It is impossible at this time of day, to foretell how the future
destinies of Europe may be influenced by the subject of these lines. To
use the words of the talented author of the _Improvisatrice_, "Poetry
needs no preface." However in this instance, a few remarks may not be
uninteresting. Until I met with the following stanzas, I was not aware
that Napoleon had been a votary of the muses.
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