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NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE .

XIII.

And she, pround Austria ’s mournful ilowrrThy still imperial bride;llow bears her breast the torturing hour '*Still clings she to thy side PMust she too bend, must she too shareThy late repentance, long despair,

Thou throneless Homicide?

If still she loves thee, hoard that gem,'Tis worth thy vanished diadem!

MV.

Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle,

And ga/.c 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 nowTransferred his by-word to thy brow.

XV.

Thou. Tiniour! in his captive’s cage ^