And long I bent me o'er that breathless form,
That smil'd all placid in the arms of death;
And, rapt in pensive, meditative mood,
I paid the sacred tribute of a tear:

For I had watch'd him withering leaf by leaf,
Ere yet the summer of his years had fled,-
Like some tall monarch of the shady grove,
Torn from its parent earth and sunny skies,
To droop, and die in uncongenial clime.-

But ah! that day I never may forget;
For I was present on that mournful morn,
When, hears'd in death, in solemu, sad array,
I saw them bear him to his lonely grave,
Amid the weeping people of the Isle;
For then no eye was unsuffus'd with tears.
And I did watch the slow procession move
All solemnly along the winding hills,
And then adown the sloping valley's side,
Until it reach'd the lonely, sacred spot,
Where he was laid, low in the silent tomb.
What tho' he be not sepulchred with kings, -
In pageantry and pomp, to rot in state,

Nor o'er him towers some gorgeous monument,—
He needs no monument to tell his fame,
Or roll it onward thro' the tide of time,-
His name shall live while pyramids decay ;-
No brazen tablet to record his deeds,
Which aye shall live in all men's memories :
But yet he has a grave in this wild Isle,-
It is a lonely, rural, sacred spot,
A place he lov'd to haunt, and whither oft
He would retire to muse, and meditate,
And which himself had chosen for his rest,
Under a weeping-willow's pensive shade:
There sleeps he peaceful in his lowly bed;

No useless, mocking monument is there;
A plain, flat stone is all that's left to tell
Where sleeps the mighty Monarch of the world.
And hither wanderers from all climes resort,
Like pilgrims journeying to some distant shrine,
To pour a tear upon his grassy grave;
Or, lingering, sit beneath the willow trees,
And pluck a leaf thereof in memory.

But now I sigh farewell! a long farewell!
may the turf sit lightly on his breast!
Peace to the deathless soul of fallen greatness!
For tho',-allur'd by Glory's dazzling star,—
His life was spent in turbulence and war,
He died in faith, and penitence, and peace;
For during his long-ling'ring, fell disease,-
A prey to anguish, cruelty, and wrong,-

He sought, and found a balm for all his woes,-
True solace found, pure heav'nly peace and joy;
And, from the fountain of Eternal Truth,
Did quench th' immortal longings of his soul;
Yea! oft was seen engag'd in solemn prayer,
And heard to plead the all-prevailing name
And merits of the Saviour of the world,
For pardon and salvation with his God.

NOTE. Having alluded to H.M. 20th Foot, which had the honour of guarding the illustrious exile, during the latter period of his captivity, I feel bound to mention an interesting fact, as highly honourable to that distinguished corps as to the fallen chieftain. Napoleon, a short time before his death, presented to the officers of that regiment, as a token of respect and esteem, the Life and Campaigns of the Duke of Marlborough, in two splendid volumes, quarto, which have long been an object of deep interest in the library of that gallant regiment, and will be ever cherished, by its members, as a valuable heir-loom: these volumes had, originally, been presented to Napoleon by Earl Spencer. But one of the most striking and touching incidents, illustrative of the noble mind of Napoleon,-still great in ruin,

-even in suffering and dissolution,—was the friendly, affectionate, and delicate attention manifested by him towards Dr. Archibald Arnott, then senior surgeon of the 20th Foot, who had the honour and privilege of attending the illustrious captive, and alleviating his sufferings, during the latter period of his life. The Emperor, on his death-bed, desired that a valuable gold snuff-box might be brought to him, and, with his dying hand, and last effort of departing strength, engraved upon its lid, with a pen-knife, the letter "N," and presented it to his kind and valued friend, as a parting memorial of his deep esteem and heart-felt gratitude. Dr. Arnott had served with the 20th Regiment, which so highly distinguished itself in the Peninsular war, during the campaigns of the Duke of Wellington, against the French, and of this fact Napoleon was well aware; therefore, is this last act of friendship stamped with true magnanimity. The Doctor is still living and in the enjoyment of health, justly beloved and respected by all who have the privilege of his friendship and acquaintance; and whatever may be the intrinsic worth of the costly present, its ideal value, as a precious relic, is, no doubt, infinitely greater in his estimation.

A DYING DAUGHTER'S ADDRESS TO HER

MOTHER.

I HEAR thee sigh, I see thee weep,

I see thine anguish still and deep,

When thou dost think I'm bound in sleep,
My mother!

And though I feel mine end draw near,
Yet whilst I live,-and life is dear,-
I would not quench the burning tear,

My mother!

But this I crave, when I am dead,—
Ah, let no briny tears be shed

O'er my new-made, peaceful bed,

My mother!

And when I've bade the last farewell,

Oh, let no dismal passing-bell

Toll its sad funereal knell,

My mother!

Ah, let there be no signs of woe,

For why should sorrow's tear-drops flow,

When I nor grief nor sorrow know?

My mother!

When I shall sleep in calmer rest
Than when a babe on thy fond breast,

Waiting the summons of the blest,

My mother!

And let there be no type of gloom
To add a horror to the tomb;

But let sweet flow'rets o'er me bloom,

My mother!

Such as I lov'd in mead and dell,

Which bind me still as with a spell,

My favourite flowers-you know them well, My mother!

Ah, let no dismal yew tree shade
The flow'ry turf where I am laid,

As 't were a spot for mourning made,

My mother!

Be nought to dim or bound the eye,
But let the blue and boundless sky
Be still my only canopy,

My mother!

And o'er me beam the sun's bright ray,
And the sweet, cheerful face of day,

And on my grave the sunbeams play,

My mother!

And, from the dawn to twilight dim,

Still be my only requiem

The sweet bird's morn and evening hymn,

My mother!