NAPOLEON AT HELENA. 41
By stiff-neck'd Pharaoh, and the shepherd kings, Hast thou no trait of him who drench 'd thy sands At Jafla and Aboukir ? when the flight Of rushing souls went up so strange and strong To the accusing Spirit ?
Glorious isle !
Whose thrice enwreathed chain, Promethean like, Did bind him to the fatal rock, we ask Thy deep memento for this marble tomb. Ho ! fur-clad Russia ! with thy spear of frost, Or with thy winter-mocking Cossack's lance, Stir the cold memories of thy vengeful brain, And give the last line of our epitaph.
But there was silence. Not a sceptred hand Receiv'd the challenge.
From the misty deep
Rise, island-spirits ! like those sisters three, Who spin and cut the trembling thread of life, Rise on your coral pedestals, and write That eulogy which haughtier climes deny. Come, for ye lulled him in your matron arms, And cheer'd his exile with the name of king, And spread that curtain 'd couch which none disturb; Come, twine some bud of household tenderness, Some tender leaflet, nurs'd with nature's tears, Around this urn. But Corsica, who rock'd His cradle at Ajaccio, tum'd away ;
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