His and are plunging in the bay,
Their sabres glitter through the spray;
Wet-wild-unwearied to the strand
They struggle--now they touch the land!
They come 'tis but to add to slaughter-
His heart's best blood is on the water.

Escaped from shot, unharm'd by steel,
Or scarcely grazed its force to feel,
Had Selim won, betray'd, beset,
To where the strand and billows met;
There as his last step left the land-
And the last death-blow dealt his hand-
Ah! wherefore did he turn to look

For her his eye but sought in vain? That pause, that fatal gaze he took, Hath doom'd his death, or fix'd his chain.

Sad proof, in peril and in pain,
How late will Lover's hope remain!
His back was to the dashing spray :
Behind, but close, his comrades lay,
When, at the instant, hiss'd the ball-
"So may the foes of Giaför fall!"
Whose voice is heard? whose carbine
rang?

Whose bullet through the night-air sang,
Too nearly, deadly aim'd to err?
'Tis thine-Abdallah's Murderer!
The father slowly rued thy hate,
The son hath found a quicker fate:

Fast from his breast the blood is bubbling,

The whiteness of the sea-foam troubling

If aught his lips essay'd to groan,
The rushing billows choked the tone!

Morn slowly rolls the clouds away;

Few trophies of the fight are there: The shouts that shook the midnight-bay Are silent; but some signs of fray

That strand of strife may bear, And fragments of each shiver'd brand Steps stamp'd; and dash'd into the sand The print of many a struggling hand

May there be mark'd; nor far remote
A broken torch, an oarless boat;
And tangled on the weeds that heap
The beach where shelving to the deep
There lies a white capote!

"T is rent in twain--one dark-red stain
The wave yet ripples o'er in vain;
But where is he who wore ?
Ye! who would o'er his relics weep,
Go, seek them where the surges sweep
Their burthen round Sigæum's steep

And cast on Lemnos' shore:
The sea-birds shriek above the prey,

O'er which their hungry beaks delay,
As shaken on his restless pillow,
His head heaves with the heaving
billow;

That hand, whose motion is not life,
Yet feebly seems to menace strife,
Flung by the tossing tide on high,
Then levell'd with the wave-
What recks it, though that corse shall
lie

Within a living grave?

The bird that tears that prostrate form
Hath only robb'd the meaner worm;
The only heart, the only eye
Had bled or wept to see him die,
Had seen those scatter'd limbs composed,
And mourn'd above his turban-stone,
That heart hath burst-that eye was
closed--

Yea-closed before his own!

By Helle's stream there is a voice of wail! And woman's eye is wet-man's cheek is pale:

Zuleika! last of Giaffir's race,
Thy destined lord is come too late:
He sees not-ne'er shall see thy face!
Can he not hear

The loud Wul-wulleh warn his distant ear?

Thy handmaids weeping at the gate, The Koran-chanters of the hymn of fate, The silent slaves with folded arms that

wait,

Sighs in the hall, and shrieks upon the gale,

Tell him thy tale!

Thou didst not view thy Selim fall! That fearful moment when he left the cave

Thy heart grew chill: He was thy hope-thy joy-thy lovethine all,

And that last thought on him thou couldst not save

Sufficed to kill;

Burst forth in one wild cry--and all was still.

Peace to thy broken heart, and virgin grave!

Ah! happy! but of life to lose the worst! That grief-though deep-though fatalwas thy first!

Thrice happy ne'er to feel nor fear the force

Of absence, shame, pride, hate, revenge, remorse!

And, oh! that pang where more than madness lies!

The worm that will not sleep-and never dies;

Thought of the gloomy day and ghastly night,

That dreads the darkness, and yet loathes the light,

That winds around, and tears the quivering heart!

Ah! wherefore not consume it-and depart!

Woe to thee, rash and unrelenting chief! Vainly thou heap'st the dust upon thy head,

Vainly the sackcloth o'er thy limbs dost spread:

By that same hand Abdallah-Selim: bled.

Now let it tear thy beard in idle grief. Thy pride of heart, thy bride for Osman's bed,

She, whom thy sultan had but seen to wed,

Thy Daughter's dead!

Hope of thine age, thy twilight's lonely beam,

The Star hath set that shone on Helle's stream.

What quench'd its ray ?-the blood that thou hast shed!

Hark! to the hurried question of Despair: "Where is my child?"-an Echo answers-Where?"

Within the place of thousand tombs

That shine beneath, while dark above The sad but living cypress glooms And withers not, though branch and leaf

Are stamp'd with an eternal grief,

Like early unrequited Love,
One spot exists, which ever blooms,
Ev'n in that deadly grove-
A single rose is shedding there

Its lonely lustre, meek and pale:
It looks as planted by Despair-

So white-so faint-the slightest gale Might whirl the leaves on high:

And yet, though storms and blight assail,

And hands more rude than wintry sky
May wring it from the stem-in vain-
To-morrow sees it bloom again :
The stalk some spirit gently rears,
And waters with celestial tears,

For well may maids of Helle deem That this can be no earthly flower, Which mocks the tempest's withering hour,

And buds unshelter'd by a bower;

Nor droops though Spring refuse bei shower,

Nor woos the summer beam:
To it the livelong night there sings
A bird unseen-but not remote:
Invisible his airy wings,

But soft as harp that Houri strings
His long entrancing note!

It were the Bulbul; but his throat, Though mournful, pours not such a strain :

For they who listen cannot leave
The spot, but linger there and grieve,
As if they loved in vain!

And yet so sweet the tears they shed,
'Tis sorrow so unmix'd with dread,
They scarce can bear the morn to break
That melancholy spell,

And longer yet would weep and wake,
He sings so wild and well!
But when the day-blush bursts from high
Expires that magic melody.

And some have been who could believe, (So fondly youthful dreams deceive,

Yet harsh be they that blame,) That note so piercing and profound Will shape and syllable its sound

Into Zuleika's name. 'Tis from her cypress summit heard, That melts in air the liquid word: 'Tis from her lowly virgin earth That white rose takes its tender birth. There late was laid a marble stone; Eve saw it placed-the Morrow gone! It was no mortal arm that bore That deep-fix'd pillar to the shore; For there, as Helle's legends tell, Next morn'twas found where Selim fell; Lash'd by the tumbling tide, whose wave Denied his bones a holier grave; And there by night, reclined, 't is said, Is seen a ghastly turban'd head:

And hence extended by the billow, 'Tis named the "Pirate-phantom's pillow!"

Where first it lay that mourning lower Hath flourish'd; flourisheth this hour, Alone and dewy, coldly pure and pale ; As weeping Beauty's cheek at Sorrow's tale!

November, 1813. November 29, 1813.

ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE "Expende Annibalem :-quot libras in duce

Summo

Invenies?"-Juvenal, Sat. x.

"T IS done-but yesterday a King! And arm'd with Kings to strive

The Desolator desolate!

The Victor overthrown! The Arbiter of others' fate

A Suppliant for his own!
Is it some yet imperial hope

That with such change can calmly cope?
Or dread of death alone?
To die a prince-or live a slave-
Thy choice is most ignobly brave!

He who of old would rend the oak,
Dream'd not of the rebound:
Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke-
Alone-how look'd he round?
Thou, in the sternness of thy strength,
An equal deed hast done at length,

And darker fate hast found:
He fell, the forest prowlers' prey;
But thou must eat thy heart away!

The Roman, when his burning heart
Was slaked with blood of Rome,
Threw down the dagger-dared depart,
In savage grandeur, home-
He dared depart in utter scorn
Of men that such a yoke had borne,
Yet left him such a doom!
His only glory was that hour
Of self-upheld abandon'd power.

The Spaniard, when the lust of sway
Had lost its quickening spell,
Cast crowns for rosaries away,
An empire for a cell;

A strict accountant of his beads,
A subtle disputant on creeds,

His dotage trifled well:

Yet better had he neither known
A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne.

But thou-from thy reluctant hand
The thunderbolt is wrung-
Too late thou leav'st the high command
To which thy weakness clung;
All Evil Spirit as thou art,

It is enough to grieve the heart

To see thine own unstrung;

To think that God's fair world hath been
The footstool of a thing so mean;

And Earth hath spilt her blood for him,
Who thus can hoard his own!
And Monarchs bow'd the trembling
limb,

And thank'd him for a throne!
Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear,
When thus thy mightiest foes their fear

In humblest guise have shown.
Oh! ne'er may tyrant leave behind
A brighter name to lure mankind!
Thine evil deeds are writ in gore
Nor written thus in vain-
Thy triumphs tell of fame no more,
Or deepen every stain :

If thou hadst died as honor dies.
Some new Napoleon might arise,

To shame the world again--
But who would soar the solar height,
To set in such a starless night?

Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust
Is vile as vulgar clay;
Thy scales, Mortality! are just

To all that pass away:

But yet methought the living great
Some higher sparks should animate,
To dazzle and dismay:

1 The Emperor Charles V

Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make mirth

Of these, the Conquerors of the earth.

And she, proud Austria's mournful flower,

Thy still imperial bride;

How bears her breast the torturing hour?

Still clings she to thy side?

Must she too bend, must she too share Thy late repentance, long despair,

Thou throneless Homicide?

If still she loves thee, hoard that gem,"T is worth thy vanish'd diadem!

Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle,
And gaze upon the sea;

That element may meet thy smile-
It ne'er was ruled by thee!
Or trace with thine all idle hand
In loitering mood upon the sand

That Earth is now as free!
That Corinth's pedagogue hath now
Transferr'd his by-word to thy brow.

Thou Timour! in his captive's cage

What thoughts will there be thine,
While brooding in thy prison'd rage?
But one-" The world was mine!"
Unless, like he of Babylon,
All sense is with thy sceptre gone,
Life will not long confine
That spirit pour'd so widely forth-
So long obey'd-so little worth!

Or, like the thief of fire from heaven,
Wilt thou withstand the shock?
And share with him, the unforgiven,
His vulture and his rock!
Foredoom'd by God-by man accurst,
And that last act, though not thy worst,
The very Fiend's arch mock;
He in his fall preserved his pride
And, if a mortal, had as proudly died!

There was a day--there was an hour,

While earth was Gaul's-Gaul thineWhen that immeasurable power Unsated to resign

Had been an act of purer fame
Than gathers round Marengo's name,
And gilded thy decline,
Through the long twilight of all time,
Despite some passing clouds of crime.

1 Dionysius the younger, tyrant of Syracuse, who after his second banishment earned his living by teaching, in Corinth.

But thou forsooth must be a king,
And don the purple vest,
As if that foolish robe could wring
Remembrance from thy breast.
Where is that faded garment? where
The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear,
The star, the string, the crest?
Vain froward child of empire! say,
Are all thy playthings snatched away?

Where may the wearied eye repose
When gazing on the Great;
Where neither guilty glory glows,
Nor despicable state?
Yes-one-the first-the last-the best-
The Cincinnatus of the West,

Whom envy dared not hate, Bequeath'd the name of Washington, To make man blush there was but one! April 9-10, 1814. April 16, 1814.

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY