A deep gloom centered in the deep repose—

The nations stood up mute to count their dead—

And he who owned the Name which vibrated

Through silence,—Trusting to his noblest foes

When earth was all too gra* for chivalry—

Died of their mercies, 'mid the desert sea.

0 wild St. Helen! very still she kept him.

With a green willow for all pyramid,— Which stirred a little if the low wind did,

A little more, if pilgrims overwept him Disparting the lithe boughs to see the clay

Which seemed to cover his for judgment-day.

Nay! not so long !—France kept her old affection

As deeply as the sepulchre the corse,
Until dilated by such love's remorse
To a new angel of the resurrection.
She cried, 'Behold, thou England! I

would have The dead whereof thou wottest from

that grave.'

And England answered in the courtesy Which ancient foes, turned lovers, may befit,—

'Take back tby dead! and when thou buriest it.

Throw in all former strife 'twixt thee and me.'

Amen, mine England! 'tis a courteous claim—

But ask a little room too ... for tby shame!

Because it was not well, it was not well.
Nor tuneful with thy lofty-chanted part
Among the Oceaniaes,—that heart
To bind and bare and vex with vulture
fell.

I would, my noble England, men might seek

All crimson stains upon tby breast—not cheek!

I would that hostile fleets had scarred Tor bay.

Instead of the lone ship which waited moored

Until thy princely purpose was assured. Then left a shadow—not to pass away— Not for to-night's moon, nor to-morrow's sun!

Green watching hills, ye witnessed what was done l

And since it was done,—in the sepul chral dust

We fain would pay back something of our debt

To France, if not to honor, and forget How through much fear we falsified the trust

Of a fallen foe and exile :—We return Orestes to Electra ... in his urn.

A little urn—a little dust inside, Which once outbalanced the large earth, albeit

To-day a four-years child might carry it Sleek-browed and smiling, 'Let the burden 'bide!' Orestes to Electra !—O fair town Of Paris, how the wild tears will run down

And run back in the chariot-marks of Time,

When all the people shall come forth to meet

The passive victor, death-still in the street

He rode through 'mid the shouting and

bell-chime And martial music,—under eagles which Dyed their rapacious beaks at Auster

litz.

Napoleon! he hath come again—borne home

Upon the popular ebbing heart,—a sea Which gathers its own wrecks perpetually.

Majestically moaning. Give him room!

Room for the dead in Paris! welcome solemn

And grave deep, 'neath the cannonmoulded column !*

There, weapon spent and warrior spent may rest

From roar of fields: provided Jupiter Dare trust Saturnus to lie down so near His bolts !—And this he may. For, dispossessed

Of any godship lies the godlike arm— The goat, Jove sucked, as likely to do harm.

And yet . , . Napoleon !—the recovered name

6hakes the old casements of the world! and we

Look out upon the passing pageantry, Attesting that the Dead makes good his claim

To a French grave,—another kingdom won,

The last—of few spans—by Napoleon,

Blood fell like dew beneath his sunrise —sooth!

Butglittered dew-like in the covenanted Meridian light. He was a despot— granted!

But the autos of his autocratic mouth Said yea i' the people's French: he

magn ified The image of the freedom he denied.

And if they asked for rights, he made reply,

'Ye have my glory !'—and so, drawing

round them His ample purple, glorified and bound

them

In an embrace that seemed identity. He ruled them like a tyrant—true! but none

Were ruled like slaves! Each felt Napoleon!

I do not praise this man: the man was flawed

For Adam—much more, Christ!—his knee unbent—.

* it was the first intention t,i tmry him under the column.

His hand unclean—his aspiration pent Within a sword-sweep—pshaw ! — but

since he had The genius to be laved, wby let him

have

The justice to be honored in his grave.

I think this nation's tears poured thus together.

Better than shouts : I think this funeral Grander than crownings, though a Pope bless all:

I think this grave stronger than thrones:

But whether The crowned Napoleon or the buried

clay

Be worthier, I discern not—Angels may.

A FLOWER IN A LETTER.

My lonely chamber next the sea.
Is full of many flowers set free

By summer's earliest duty;
Dear friends upon the garden-walk
Might stop amid their fondest talk.

To pull the least in beauty.

A thousand flowers—each seeming one That learnt, by gazing on the sun.

To counterfeit his shining— Within whose leaves the holy dew That falls from heaven, hath won anew

A glory ... in declining.

Red roses used to praises long,
Contented with the poet's song.

The nightingale's being over:
And lilies white, prepared to touch
The whitest thought, nor soil it much,

Of dreamer turned to lover.

Deep violets you liken to

The kindest eyes that look on you,

Without a thought disloyal: And cactuses, a queen might don. If weary of a golden crown.

And still appear as royal.

Pansies for ladies all,—I wis

That none who wear such brooches, miss

A jewel in the mirror:
And tulips, children love to stretch
Their fingers down, to feel in each

Us beauty's secret nearer,

Love's language may be talked with these

To work out choicest sentences.

No blossoms can be meeter. And such being used in Eastern bowers, Young maids may wonder if the flowers

Or meanings be the sweeter.

And such being strewn before a bride, Her little foot may turn aside.

Their longer bloom decreeing; Unless some voice's whispered sound Should make her gaze upon the ground

Too earnestly for seeing.

And such being scattered on a grave,
Whoever mourneth there may have

A type which seemeth worthy
Of that fair body hid below
Which bloomed on earth a time ago,

Then perished as the earthy.

And such being wreathed for worldly feast,

Across the brimming cup some guest

Their rainbow colors viewing, May feel them,—with a silent start, The covenant, his childish heart With nature made,—renewing

No flowers our gardened England hath,
To match with these in bloom and breath

Which from the world are hiding
In sunny Devon moist with rills,
A nunnery of cloistered hills.

The elements presiding.

By Loddon's stream the flowers are fair
That meet one gifted lady's care

With prodigal rewarding;
For Beauty is too used to run
To Mitford's bower—to want the sun

To light her through the garden.

But, here, all summers are comprised—
The nightly frosts shrink exorcised

Before the priestly moonshine:
And every Wind with stoled feet,
In wandering down the alleys sweet,

Steps lightly on the sunshine:

And (having promised Harpocrate
Among the nodding roses, that
No harm shall touch his daughters

Gives quite away the rushing sound,
He dares not use upon such ground.
To ever-trickling waters.

Yet, sun and wind! what can ye do,
But make the leaves more brightly show

In posies newly gathered?
I look away from all your best;
To one poor flower unlike the rest,

A little flower half-withered.

I do not think it ever was

A pretty flower,—to make the grass

Look greener where it reddened: And now it seems ashamed to be Alone in all this company,

Of aspect shrunk and saddened.

A chamber-window was the spot
It grew in, from a garden-pot,

Among the city shadows:
If any, tending it, might seem
To smile, 'twas only in a dream

Of nature in the meadows.

How coldly on its head did fall
The sunshine, from the city wall

In pale refraction driven I
How sadly plashed upon its leaves
The raindrops, losing in the eaves

The first sweet news of Heaven!

And those who planted, gathered it
In gamesome or in loving fit,

And sent it as a token
Of what their city pleasures be,—
For one, in Devon by the sea

And garden-blooms, to look on.

But She, for whom the jest was meant, With a grave passion innocent

Receiving what was given,— Oh! if her face she turned then. Let none say 'twas to gaze again

Upon the flowers of Devon!

Because, whatever virtue dwells
In genial skies—warm oracles

For gardens brightly springing,— The flower which grew beneath your eyes,

Beloved friends, to mine supplies
A beauty worthier singing!

TO BETTINE,

THE CHiLD FRiEND OF GOETHE.

"i have the second sight, Qoethe !"—tetters of a Chlid.

Bettine, friend of Goethe, Hadst thou the second sight— Upturning worship and delight

With such a loving duty To his grand face, as women will, The childhood 'neath thine eyelids still?

tt.

Before his shrine to doom thee Using the same child's smile That heaven and earth, beheld erewhile

For the first time, won from thee, Ere star and flower grew dim and dead. Save at his feet and o'er his head.

m.

Digging thine heart and throwing
Away its childhood's gold,
That so its woman-depth might hold

His spirit's overflowing.
For surging souls, no worlds can bound,
Their channel in the heart have found.

iv.

O child, to change appointed,
Thou hadst not second sight!
What eyes the future view aright,

Unless by tears anointed?
Yea, only tears themselves can show
The burning ones that have to flow.

v.

O woman, deeply loving, Thou hadst not second sight! The star is very high and bright.

And none can see it moving. Love looks around, below, above, Yet all his prophecy is—love.

vi.

The bird tby childhood's playing
Sent onward o'er the sea,
Tby dove of hope came back to thee

Without a leaf. Art laying
Its wet cold wing no sun can dry,
Still in tby bosom secretly?

vtt.

Our Goethe's friend, Bettine,
I have the second sight!
The stone upon his grave is white,

The funeral stone between ye;
And in tby mirror thou hast viewed
Some change as hardly understood.

vitt.

Where's childhood ? where is Goethe 1
The tears are in thine eyes.
Nay, thou shalt yet reorganise

Thy maidenhood of beauty
In his own glory, which is smooth
Of wrinkles and sublime in youth,

iX.

The poet's arms have wound thee,
He breathes upon tby brow,
He lifts thee upward in the glow

Of his great genius round thee,—
The childlike poet undefiled
Preserving evermore The Child.

FELICIA HEMANS.

TO L. E. L., REFERRiNG TO HER MONODY ON THAT POETESS.

Thou bay-crowned living One that o'er

the bay-crowned Dead art bowing. And o'er the shadeless moveless brow

the vital shadow throwing; And o'er the sighless songless lips the

wail and music wedding; And dropping o'er the tranquil eyes, the

tears not of their shedding !—

n.

Take music from the silent Dead, whose

meaning is completer; Reserve thy tears for living brows,

where all such tears are meeter; And leave the violets in the grass to

brighten where thou treadest! No flowers for her ! no need of flowers—

albeit " bring flowers," thou saides*