His eagles to the dust were hurled, And bright Marengo’s star grew dim, The conqueror of half the world, Had none to sooth or pity him. And he has come to view again The hills his flashing sword hath won: To hear the music of the main, And note the thunder’s evening gun. His heart is cold, his eye is dim, His burning brand shall blaze no more; The living world is dead to him, The sea’s wild dash, the tempest’s roar. Marengo’s cloak is round him cast, And Jena’s blade is by his side, But where is now his trumpet’s blast? And where the soldiers of his pride? They sleep by Nilus’ bull-rushed wave, They slumber on the Danube’s bed; The earth is but a common grave For gallant France’s immortal dead. His charger rushes from the height: The fitful dream of life is o’er, And oh! that eye that beamed so bright, Shall never wake to glory more. Beneath the mountain’s misty head, Where streamed the lava’s burning tide. They made the scourge of Europe’s bed, And laid his falchion by his side. He sleeps alone, as sweetly now As they who fell by Neva’s shore: And peasants near him guide the plough, And craven Europe fears no more. He sleeps alone—nor shall he start Till Time’s last trumpet rings the wave: For death has still’d the mighty heart Where fierce ambition made his grave. ’Tis sad to view, when day grows dim, The stone that closed o’er Europe’s fears: And listen to the waves’ wild hymn, That swallowed up the exile’s tears. The eagle screams his dirge by day, The tempest answers, and the sea, And streaming lightnings leap to play Above the man of Destiny. Washington, February, 1841. * * * * * LINES. To the Author of the Requiem, “I See Thee Still.” BY E. CLEMENTINE STEDMAN. Oft when o’er my young being, shades of grief Have darkly gathered, and been spent in tears, Thy “spirit-stirring muse” hath brought relief, And called back images of other years! As from the world my soul removed her care, And sought the healing balm of Poesy to share. Perchance ’twas but some scraps that met my eye, Yet like a charm, it soothed an aching heart— Bidding it turn from hopes beneath the sky, To choose above the wise, unfailing part; And while I read, I blessed aloud thy name, And prayed that Heaven’s best gifts might mingle with its fame! And now, though stranger to thy form and face, Yet since familiar with thy spirit’s tone; Pardon this humble pen, which fain would trace Some thought, to cheer a heart bereaved and lone, Some sympathetic token, from a soul Which bleeds to know that thine is bowed ’neath grief’s control.