Bold youth! whose bosom with pride had glowed
In a life of toil severe—
Did'st thou scorn to pass to thy last abode
In the ease of the slothful bier?
Must thy own good steed, which thy hands had drest,
In the fulness of boyhood's bliss,
By the load of thy lifeless limbs be prest,
On a journey so strange as this!
Yet still to the depths of yon rock-barred dell,
Where no ray from heaven hath glowed,
Where the thundering rush of the Markefoss fell,
The trembling child doth point and tell,
How that fearful horseman rode.
THE TOMB OF JOSEPHINE.
"A Josephine,[1]—Eugene et Hortense."—1825.
Empress of Earth's most polish'd clime!
Whose path of splendid care
Did touch the zenith-point of hope,
The nadir of despair,—
Here doth thy wrong'd, confiding heart
Resign its tortur'd thrill,
And slumber like the peasant's dust,
All unconcern'd and still?
- ↑ The inscription on the tomb of the Empress Josephine,—erected by her children.
