Colonna gazed a while in solemn and impressive silence upon the foe he
had destroyed. His broad forehead darkened with deep thought, and his
eyes saddened with painful recollections of the beloved parent whose
untimely death he had so well avenged. Soon, however, his noble
features brightened with a fervent look of blended filial piety and
exultation. He wiped his reeking blade upon the remnants of Barozzo's
mantle, and we retraced our steps. Colonna ascended a sheep-path, and
crossed the mountain to regain his boat, while I returned by a
circuitous road to the villa, leaving the governor of Candia and his
retinue to the vultures of the Apennine, which, with unerring ken, had
espied the dead Greeks, and were already sailing in wide eddies high
above the scene of blood.

* * * * *

Here my friend, who had with difficulty pursued his way through the
mouldy pages of the decayed manuscript, was compelled to make a final
pause. The long action of time and damp had nearly obliterated the
remainder of the narrative, and glimpses only of romantic perils by
sea and land were occasionally discernible. We were obliged to suspend
all farther gratification of our curiosity until our return to Venice,
where we hoped by a chemical process to succeed in restoring to a more
legible tint the pale characters of this interesting manuscript.

NAPOLEON.

BY J. G. LOCKHART.

[_MAGA._ JULY 1821.]

The mighty sun had just gone down
Into the chambers of the deep;
The ocean birds had upward flown,
Each in his cave to sleep.

And silent was the island shore,
And breathless all the broad red sea,
And motionless beside the door
Our solitary tree.

Our only tree, our ancient palm,
Whose shadow sleeps our door beside.
Partook the universal calm,
When Buonaparte died.

An ancient man, a stately man,
Came forth beneath the spreading tree,
His silent thoughts I could not scan,
His tears I needs must see.

A trembling hand had partly cover'd
The old man's weeping countenance,
Yet something o'er his sorrow hover'd
That spake of War and France;

Something that spake of other days,
When trumpets pierced the kindling air,
And the keen eye could firmly gaze
Through battle's crimson glare.

Said I, Perchance this faded hand,
When Life beat high