What though on St. Helena's rocky shore Thy head be pillow'd, and thy form entomb'd, Perhaps that son, the child thou did'st adore, Fired with a father's fame, may yet be doom'd To crush the bigot Bourbon, and restore Thy mouldering ashes ere they be consum'd; Perhaps may run the course thyself did'st run, And light the world as comets light the sun. 'Tis better thou art gone, 'twere sad to see Beneath an "imbecile's impotant reign" Thine own unvanquished legions doomed to be Cursed instruments of vengeance on poor Spain; That land so glorious once in chivalry, Now sunk in slavery and in shame again; To see th' imperial guard, thy dauntless band, Made tools for such a wretch as _Ferdinand_. Farewell, Napoleon! thine hour is past; No more earth trembles at thy dreaded name; But France, unhappy France shall long contrast Thy deeds with those of worthless _D'Angoulême_. Ye gods! how long shall Slavery's thraldom last? Will France alone remain for ever tame? Say, will no Wallace, will no Washington, Scourge from thy soil the infamous Bourbon? Is Freedom dead? is Nero's reign restored? Frenchmen! remember Jena, Austerlitz; The first, which made thy emperor the lord Of Prussia, and which almost threw in fits _Great_ Frederick William; he, who, at the board Took all the Prussian uniform to bits; Frederick, the King of regimental tailors, As _Hudson Lowe_, the very prince of jailors. Farewell, Napoleon! had'st thou have died The coward scorpion's death, afraid, asham'd To meet Adversity's advancing tide, The weak had praised thee, but the wiser had blam'd; But no! though torn from country, child, and bride, With spirit unsubdued, with soul untam'd, Great in misfortune as in glory high, Thou daredst to live through life's worst agony. Pity, for thee shall weep her fountains dry; Mercy, for thee shall bankrupt all her store; Valour shall pluck a garland from on high, And Honour twine the wreath thy temples o'er; Beauty shall beckon to thee from the sky, And smiling seraphs open wide Heav'n's door; Around thy head the brightest stars shall meet, And rolling suns play sportive at thy feet. Farewell, Napoleon! a long farewell, A stranger's tongue, alas! must hymn thy worth; No craven Gaul dare wake his harp to tell, Or sound in song the spot that gave thee birth. No more thy name, that with its magic spell Arous'd the slumb'ring nations of the earth, Echoes around thy land; 'tis past--at length France sinks beneath the sway of Charles the Tenth. THE BUTTERFLY. BY R. C. SANDS. [_From the French of De la Martine._]