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WRITTEN ON HEARING THE NEWS OF
THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON.
WHAT! alive and so bold, ob earth ?
Art thou not overbold ?
What ! leapest thou forth as of old In the light of thy morning mirth, The last of the flock of the starry fold ? Ha! leapest thou forth as of old ? Are not the limbs still when the ghost is fled, And canst thou move, Napoleon being dead ?
How! is not thy quick heart cold?
What spark is alive on thy hearth? How! is not his death-knell knolled ?
And livest thou still, Mother Earth ? Thou wert warming thy fingers old O’er the embers covered and cold Of that most fiery spirit, when it fledWhat, Mother, do you laugh now he is dead ?
“Who has known me of old,” replied Earth,
“ Or who has my story told ?
“It is thou who art overbold.” And the lightning of scorn laughed forth 20 As she sung, “ to my bosom I fold “ All my sons when their knell is knolled, “ And so with living motion all are fed, “And the quick spring like weeds out of the “ Still alive and still bold," shouted Earth,
“I grow bolder and still more bold.
“ The dead fill me ten thousand fold “Fuller of speed, and splendour, and mirth; “I was cloudy, and sullen, and cold, “ Like a frozen chaos uprolled,
30 “ Till by the spirit of the mighty dead “ My heart grew warm. I feed on whom I fed.
“Aye, alive and still bold,” muttered Earth,
“Napoleon's fierce spirit rolled,
“In terror and blood and gold, “ A torrent of ruin to death from his birth. “ Leave the millions who follow to mould “ The metal before it be cold; “ And weave into his shame, which like the
dead “ Shrouds me, the hopes that from his glory