NAPOLEON'S MIDNIGHT REVIEW. FROM THE GERMAN OF BARON TEDLITZ. WHEN midnight hour is come, The drummer forsakes his tomb, Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly And marches, beating his phantom-drum, I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness. of heart. "Stay, stay with us! Rest! Thou art weary and worn;" And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay; To and fro through the ghastly gloom. He plies the drumsticks twain With fleshless fingers pale, And beats and beats again and again A long and dreary reveille. Like the voice of abysmal waves But sorrow returned with the dawning of And the slain in the land of the Hun, And the frozen in the icy North, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted And those who under the burning sun morn, graves away. THOMAS CAMPBELL. Of Italy sleep, come forth, Where man can boast that he has trod But the mountain-stream shall turn And lay its secret channel bare, My gold and silver ye shall fling Back to the clods that gave them birthThe captured crowns of many a king, The ransom of a conquered earth; For e'en though dead will I control The trophies of the capitol. But when beneath the mountain-tide Ye've laid your monarch down to rot, Ye shall not rear upon its side Pillar or mound to mark the spot; For long enough the world has shook Beneath the terrors of my look, And now that I have run my race The astonished realms shall rest a space. My course was like a river deep, And from the northern hills I burst, Across the world in wrath to sweep, And where I went the spot was cursed, Nor blade of grass again was seen Where Alaric and his hosts had been. See how their haughty barriers fail Before my ruthless sabaoth, And low the queen of empires kneels And grovels at my chariot-wheels, Not for myself did I ascend In judgment my triumphal-car : 'Twas God alone on high did send The avenging Scythian to the war, With iron hand that scourge I reared And Vengeance sat upon the helm, Across the everlasting Alp I poured the torrent of my powers, And feeble Cæsars shrieked for help In vain within their seven-hilled towers; My course is run, my errand done, Of glory that adorns my name, My course is run, my errand done, And in the caves of vengeance wait, And soon mankind shall blench away Before the name of Attila. EDWARD EVERETT. Far worse thy fate rock; Thou art at rest, Than that which doomed him to the barren Child of ambition's martyr! Life had been Through half the universe was felt the shock times When down he toppled from his high For thou wert one whose path in these dark estate, And the proud thought of still acknowledged Must lead to sorrows-it might be, to power Could cheer him e'en in that disastrous hour. But thou, poor boy! Hadst no such dreams to cheer the lagging hours: crimes. Thou art at rest! The idle sword has worn its sheath away, The spirit has consumed its bonds of clay, And they who with vain tyranny comprest Thy chain still galled though wreathed with Thy soul's high yearnings now forget their fairest flowers; Thou hadst no images of by-past joy, No visions of anticipated fame, To bear thee through a life of sloth and shame. And where was she Whose proudest title was Napoleon's wife- Trebling a mother's tenderness for thee? No! Round her heart Children of humbler, happier lineage twined; Thou couldst but bring dark memories to mind Of pageants where she bore a heartless part : She who shared not her monarch-husband's doom Cared little for her first-born's living tomb. |