If any one will visit the hospitable mansion of the present proprietor of the estate, which has descended from our Kate, they may hear her story with increased interest, from the lips of some of her fair descendants; and upon taking a view of the place, where she crossed amid such perils, they will not be surprised to learn that the circumstance should have given to it the name of the “Maiden’s Adventure.” S. February, 1841. * * * * * NAPOLEON. BY J. E. DOW. “About the twenty-second of January, 1821, Napoleon’s energies revived. He mounted his horse and galloped for the last time around Longwood, but nature was overcome by the effort.” Chained to a wild and sea-girt rock Where the volcano’s fires were dead; He woke to hear the surges mock The living thunder o’er his head. His charger spurned the mountain turf, For he o’er glaciered Alps had trod,— He scorned to bear the island serf, And only stood to Europe’s God. And now, the prisoner’s spirit soared, And fiercely glanced his eagle eye; He grasped again his crimson sword, And bade his silken eagle fly. High on a cliff, that braved the storm, And beat the thundering ocean back; He felt the life-blood coursing warm As oft in mountain bivouac. Around him bowed a bannered world: And lightnings played beneath his feet; The storm’s wild ensign o’er him curled, And ocean drums his grand march beat. Above the Alps’ eternal snows He led his freezing legions on: And when the morning sun arose— The land of deathless song was won. The desert waste before him rolled, And haughty Mam’lukes bit the ground; Old Cairo reared her mosques of gold, And Nile returned his bugle’s sound. The doors of centuries opened wide Before the master spirit’s blows, And flapped his eagles’ wings in pride Above the time-dried Pharoahs. Then northward moved his chainless soul, And Europe’s host in wrath he met, The Danube heard his drum’s wild roll, And Wagram dimmed his bayonet. On many a field his cannons rung, The Nations heard his wild hurrah: And brazen gates were open flung, To usher in the Conqueror. The Cossack yelled his dread advance, And legions bared their scymetars, When with the infantry of France He trampled on the sleeping Czars. And Moscow’s sea of fire arose Upon the dark and stormy sky, While cohorts, in their stirrups froze, Or pillowed on the snow to die. A merry strain the lancers blew When morning o’er his legions shone! But evening closed o’er Waterloo, And death, dread sentinel, watch’d alone.