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.

THE LOVER.

SCENE I.--A WOODED MOUNTAIN IN BLOOM--TIME
SUNRISE--ENTER LOVER SOLUS.

This is my fair resort, the Summer Sun
Is rising there, the ocean gleams like gold,
On which his rolling chariot burns like fire.
Ten thousand birds are up in branch and air,
To hail this coronation, every day
Repeated from the first to last of time.
It is a glorious sight, and worthy all
That has been said or sung of it in verse.
But yet 'tis dim to me, Odora's eyes
Have cast that glory in a dull eclipse,
Oh! sweet Odora! I am mad with love
Of thy sweet eyes. Would they might rain their rays
Upon me, as yon orb, rains rays on earth.
Oh, sweetest eyes of love! they set on fire
My tinder heart. Odora! come to me!
Upon this mountain's green and glittering brow,
Where now I stand and gaze down earth and main,
O'er which that God's all gladdening glory soars.
Come, sweet Odora! thine eyes outshine that God.
Thy speech's music so transcends these birds,
They'll pine for grief and die. Oh sweet, come, come.

ENTER ODORA IN THE DRESS OF A WOODNYMPH.

Transcendant vision! Even now I thought of thee,
My mind, o'erheated, called--and thou art here.
What blissful fate hath brought thee? Dost thou roam
The scented hills at morn, to gather flowers;
To gaze into the fountain's glassy mirror,
Or list the sweet birds sigh on every bough,
Thou art a woodnymph, speaks thy