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THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON.

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

FAST and low his breast was heaving,

Pain-disturbed, he scarcely slept;

Earth the warrior's soul was leaving,

And we bow'd our heads and wept;

For that mighty soul was dying;

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Half-awake, half-lost in trance,

To our questions naught replying -

Dreaming only of his France.

Visions of his life swept o'er him,

Of that glorious, strange career,

When the conquered kings before him

Suppliant knelt, and quailed in fear;

When all Europe crouch'd and trembled

At his word of stern command, -

Little now his fate resembled

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