What glorious record holds the past of thee,
What single page from foul disgrace is free;
Bend, weeping Mary, Scotland’s lovely Queen,
With noblest grace, and sad, yet royal mien,
Bend from yon dome of pure, celestial blue,
Say, when a fugitive from sorrow flew,
To Britain’s bosom, did she live—­or die—­
Unheard—­uncared for, her last lingering sigh?

On yon bleak isle, behold the Eagle razed,
Who lately soaring, down on Europe gazed. 
See now a jackal move about his gate,
Gloat o’er his grief, and mock his fallen State—­
Howl round his nobler prisoner every hour,
How brave! to mock him now, deprived of power!

Behold, on yon lone rock the Lion bound,
Who once o’er prostrate Europe looked around;
See now, a Spaniel, yelping at the gate
Of his strong dungeon, mock his altered State.

Methinks, when dying on that lonely isle,
The sad abode of his most sad exile;
If, haply, he had touched the mournful lyre,
It breathed this “Farewell”—­ere he did expire.

      “I die not on this hideous rock,
        As common men would die;
      The world will weep above my grave,
        Despite a dismal lie.

      I well endure the fiercest pangs
        That myriads give to one,—­
      But oh! my lovely France!  I grieve,
        To leave thee so undone.

      My towering aim, to see thy fame
        O’er all beneath the sky—­
      So much—­at last—­is now achieved,
        And, half content, I die.

      The woes my foes decree me here,
        Ne’er wake my faintest sigh—­
      But when I view my country’s woes,
        Not yet I wish to die.

      But lo! the Future opens now,
        Before my glazing eyes,
      And shapes of new and coming things,
        Before my vision rise.

      I see the Bourbon hurled at last,
        From France’s tottering throne,
      A proud Napoleon reigning there,
        France, smiling, points her own!’

      Earth yet adores my mighty name—­
        And, late, laments my doom,
      Nor longer wrongs the gliding ghost
        That loathes its island tomb.

      Long—­long through age succeeding age,
        Napoleon doth awake
      A fearful throb in injured breasts,
        To make vile despots quake—­

      And teach the world this truthful lore,
        That Greater still must reign,
      Or Weaker must exist on earth
        And pass to dust in vain!”

STANZAS.

Hark! how the wintry tempest raves,
    Along the frozen plain—­
Dark, dark the lowering clouds above,
    And fast descends the rain.

But, lady! now a deeper gloom
    Surrounds thy lover’s soul,
And wilder floods of grief and woe,
    Around his spirit roll.