Yes; for the bard immers'd in death's long sleep, The Bessic plund'rers bid their tears to flow, The rough Coralli and Sarmatian weep, And cruel Getic strikes his face the blow. Hills, woods, and savage beasts his death deplore, And Ister wails amid his waters' bed, And Pontus, chill'd with ice incrusted o'er, Warms with the tears the sorrowing Nereids shed. There with the Paphian mother in swift haste, The light-winged Doves through airy regions came, With pious care the blazing torches plac'd Beneath the pyre prepar'd to feed the flame. Soon as the rapid fires with wasteful sway Consum'd whate'er their greedy rage could burn, His cherish'd relics they collect, and lay In decent order in the cover'd urn. With this short verse the stone they next impress: (The treasur'd dust placed to denote above,) "He who sepulchred lies in this recess, Was teacher of the tender art of love." Here Cytherea's self, with snow-white hand, Sheds sacred dews in seven free sprinklings round, And for the Bard remov'd, the Muse's band Pour strains my lays may not attempt to sound. NAPOLEON. BY ISAAC CLASON.--1825. I love no land so well as that of France-- Land of Napoleon and Charlemagne, Renowned for valour, women, wit, and dance, For racy Burgundy and bright Champagne, Whose only word in battle was advance; While that Grand Genius, who seemed born to reign, Greater than Ammon's son, who boasted birth From heaven, and spurn'd all sons of earth, Greater than he who wore his buskins high, A Venus armed impressed upon his seal; Who smiled at poor Calphurnia's prophecy, Nor feared the stroke he soon was doomed to feel. Who on the Ides of March breathed his last sigh As Brutus pluck'd away his "cursed steel," Exclaiming, as he expired "Et tu, Brute," But Brutus thought he only did his duty. Greater than he, who, at nine years of age, On Carthage' altar swore eternal hate; Who with a rancour time could ne'er assuage, With feelings no reverse could moderate; With talents such as few would dare engage, With hopes that no misfortune could abate-- Died like his rival--both with broken hearts; Such was their fate, and such was Bonaparte's. Napoleon Bonaparte! thy name shall live Till time's last echo shall have ceased to sound; And if Eternity's confines can give To space reverberation round and round The spheres of Heaven, the long, deep cry of "Vive Napoleon," in thunders shall rebound; The lightning's flash shall blaze thy name on high, Monarch of earth, now meteor of the sky!