And hear the murmur of its conquer'd tribes, Yon little speck, which scarce the mariner Guiding their footsteps o'er the frost-work crown Of the thron'd Alps,-why dost thou sleep, unmark'd Even by such slight memento as the hind Carves on his own coarse tomb-stone? Bid the throng Who pour'd thee incense, as Olympian Jove, Those forms, O'er the wide valleys of red slaughter strew'd, From pole to tropic, and from zone to zone, Heed not the clarion-call. Yet, should they rise, Each dry bone to its fellow, or in heaps Should pile their pillar'd dust,—might not the stars Did build its Babel-stairs, creeping, by stealth, To dwell with them? But here, unwept, thou art, With neither living man, nor spectre lone. To trace thine epitaph. Invoke the climes That serv'd as playthings, in thy desperate game Of mad ambition, or their treasures strew'd Grave Austerlitz, and fiercely turn away. From the shades Of letter'd ease, O Germany! come forth Of deeper character than bold romance Hath ever imag'd in her wildest dream, Hail, lotus-crown'd! in thy green childhood fed Of rushing souls went up so strange and strong Glorious isle! Whose thrice enwreathed chain, Promethean like, Thy deep memento for this marble tomb. But there was silence. Not a sceptred hand Receiv'd the challenge. From the misty deep Rise, island-spirits! like those sisters three, Who spin and cut the trembling thread of life, Rise on your coral pedestals, and write That eulogy which haughtier climes deny. ye lulled him in your matron arms, And cheer'd his exile with the name of king, And spread that curtain'd couch which none disturb; Come, twine some bud of household tenderness, Some tender leaflet, nurs'd with nature's tears, And tiny Elba in the Tuscan wave Plung'd her slight annal with the haste of fear; Then Earth arose, That blind old empress, on her crumbling throne, And, to the echoed question-"Who shall write Napoleon's epitaph?"—as one who broods O'er unforgiven injuries, answer'd—“ None.” DEAF, DUMB AND BLIND GIRL,* AT A FESTIVAL. I SAW her, where the summer flowers I saw her, but no song she heard, No varying ray her spirit cheer'd That o'er the glorious landscape broke. For while her young companions share Descending, shrouds her lonely mind. Yet deem not, though so dark her path, Heaven strew'd no comfort o'er her lot, *Julia Brace, from the Asylum for the Deaf and Dumb, at Hartford, Connecticut. |