Into capitals subdued Thou mayst ride with gallant rein, Cut the knots of civil feud With the trenchant steel in twain; With thine edicts barricade Haughty Thames' o'er-freighted trade; Fickle Victory's self enthrall, Captive to thy trumpet call; Burst the stoutest gates asunder; Leave the names of brightest wonder, Pale and dim, behind thee far; And to exhaustless armies yield Thy glancing spur,--o'er Europe's field A glory-guiding star. God guards duration, if lends space to thee, Thou mayst o'er-range mundane immensity, Rise high as human head can rise sublime, Snatch Europe from the stamp of Charlemagne, Asia from Mahomet; but never gain Power o'er the Morrow from the Lord of Time! _Fraser's Magazine._ THE EAGLET MOURNED. _("Encore si ce banni n'eût rien aimé sur terre.")_ [V, iv., August, 1832.] Too hard Napoleon's fate! if, lone, No being he had loved, no single one, Less dark that doom had been. But with the heart of might doth ever dwell The heart of love! and in his island cell Two things there were--I ween. Two things--a portrait and a map there were-- Here hung the pictured world, an infant there: That framed his genius, this enshrined his love. And as at eve he glanced round th' alcove, Where jailers watched his very thoughts to spy, What mused he _then_--what dream of years gone by Stirred 'neath that discrowned brow, and fired that glistening eye? 'Twas not the steps of that heroic tale That from Arcola marched to Montmirail On Glory's red degrees; Nor Cairo-pashas' steel-devouring steeds, Nor the tall shadows of the Pyramids-- Ah! Twas not always these; 'Twas not the bursting shell, the iron sleet, The whirlwind rush of battle 'neath his feet, Through twice ten years ago, When at his beck, upon that sea of steel Were launched the rustling banners--there to reel Like masts when tempests blow. 'Twas not Madrid, nor Kremlin of the Czar, Nor Pharos on Old Egypt's coast afar, Nor shrill _réveillé's_ camp-awakening sound, Nor bivouac couch'd its starry fires around, Crested dragoons, grim, veteran grenadiers, Nor the red lancers 'mid their wood of spears Blazing like baleful poppies 'mong the golden ears. No--'twas an infant's image, fresh and fair, With rosy mouth half oped, as slumbering there. It lay beneath the smile, Of her whose breast, soft-bending o'er its sleep, Lingering upon that little lip doth keep One pendent drop the while.