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BY

NAPOLEON AT MELUN.

MRS. SARAH REBECCA

BARNES.

"THE glades of the forest, presenting the appearance of a deep solitude, were full in view of the royal army, encamped at Melun. At length the galloping of horse was heard, aud an open carriage approached, surrounded by a few hussars, and drawn by four horses. It came on at full speed, and Napoleon, jumping from the vehicle, was in the midst of the ranks that had been sent to oppose him. There was a general shout of "Vive Napoleon!" The last army of the Bourbons passed from their side, and there existed no farther obstruction between Napoleon and the capital."-SCOTT'S LIFE OF BONAPARTE.

IN all thy long career of pride, of glory and of power,
Of triumph and of victory - oh, name thy proudest hour!

That hour which o'er thy future course the rosiest promise threw,
Which from the past no omen ill or inauspicious drew.

Was it when on red Lodi's field, unshrinking, undismayed,
Defying death and dangers, thou that pass of peril made?
Or when, her ancient glory dim, her wingéd lion low,
Inglorious Venice shrank aghast and fell without a blow?

Queen of the Adriatic! - thou still lingerest round the heart,
Awakening dreams of other days, unworthy as thou art;
Romance hath cast her spell o'er thee in gorgeous memories dyed,
And the hour that saw thee in the dust was not an hour of pride.

Was it when like a "flaxen band," proud Austria's power was rent,
And o'er her flying myriads thou thy glance of triumph sent?
When from her ancient capital abandoned to thy power,
Thy shouts of victory went up: was that thy proudest hour?

Was it when Russia's giant force in terror and dismay,
Upon the field of Austerlitz before thee prostrate lay?
That "battle of the Emperors," with glorious memories rife,
So cherished mid each after-scene of thy eventful life?

Or when at thy sublimest height of conquest and renown,
Was placed upon thy laurelled brow the Lombard's iron crown?
The iron crown of Charlemagne - a symbol of the power

That countless thousands humbly owned: was that thy proudest hour?

Perchance upon thine inmost soul prophetic whisperings came,
Of the insecurity of thrones, the heartlessness of fame.
Perchance upon thy spirit then dark visions floated past,
To mar the triumph of that hour, its radiant promise blast.

If so, none knew: unwise it were to waken dark distrust;
But lo! upon the wildered eye what bridal pageants burst!
Imperial Hapsburgh! fated still to feel thine iron thrall,
Thou hero of an hundred fights, and victor in them all!

So reckless of another's claim, by mad ambition led,
Where slept the thunder? why forebore the bolt that should have sped
To rive that red right hand, before the altar pledged to thee,
Im perial victim! offered up mid mirth and revelry?

But why, when every breath bespeaks the triumph hour of mirth, Why is it mid this festal scene that darker thoughts have birth? What curse is brooding in the air? What shadow passing by? What demon is abroad to mar this hour's festivity?

There's restlessness within that eye, repress it as thou wilt;
A deepening hectic on that cheek, it is the flush of guilt!
For memory of that injured one is with thee even now,

And crime is deepening at thy heart and darkening o'er thy brow.

A fearful vision, undefined, thy very spirit stirs,

That doom is on thee, long foretold, thy star declines with hers! "Spoilt child of fortune!" fated still, and formed to move the heart; So glorious as thou might'st have been! so guilty as thou art!

A change was wrought-a mighty change; of all thy conquests vast, The memory alone remained, thy day of empire past.

An exile in a lonely isle, yet still unshrinking shone

That spirit which no change could quell, that greatness all thine own.

Another change: thy footsteps press once more the soil of France,
And despots madden at the thought, and bid their hosts advance.
Alone thou comest: hostile bands meet thy unstartled view,
The soldier's eye has caught thy form! The soldier's heart is true!

At once from countless numbers poured, a deafening shout arose,
And ranks on ranks prolonged the sound: thy foes! where are thy foes?
Like wreath of morning mist before the sun's triumphant ray,
The Bourbon saw his power decline, his legions pass away!

And thou

not in thy proudest day of triumph and renown, When kings became thy suppliants, and thanked thee for a crown! When earth to her remotest bounds thine influence felt and owned, And thou thy mandates issued forth in regal splendor throned.

Not then! not then thine hour of pride, though millions owned thy sway;
There waited on thy destiny a more triumphant day;

That day on which a fugitive, where all was once thine own,
A nation's voice with one accord recalled thee to a throne!

FREEDOM AND PROGRESS.

BY CHARLES G. ATHERTON.

Not only are the annals of our Revolution connected with the principles of freedom, but liberty is the beginning, the end, the substance of all our history. It is entwined and embodied with all the events that mark our progress, — it is written in characters that can never be effaced, on every page of our story, it is interwoven with all that we have been, all that we are, and all that we hope to be. Our forefathers came to this land seeking refuge from oppression. Despised and insulted by the haughty arbiters of the old world, that meek and suffering, but hardy and faithful band brought to inhospitable and savage shores their household gods, their principles, their hopes. They were wafted hither by no prosperous gales of royal favor :— no lofty patronage protected their humble troop. The same spirit which led them here which supported them under trials and privations almost insupportable—which nerved their souls against the attacks of hunger, want and savage enemies, — this same spirit flowed down to their descendants, and became a part of their being. It was the same spirit which in them prompted resistance to unwarrantable assumptions on the part of the parent country, and the renunciation of an allegiance that no longer promised protection. It was the same spirit, that throughout their struggle, nerved their arms and braced their souls, and led them to resolve, to use the words of one of their most able writers, "that wheresoever, whensoever, and howsoever they might be called tò make their exit, they would die free men!"

"It is the cause" which animates and inspires men to be great. It was this which, in our country, raised up men to vie with the skilful and more practiced statesmen of older nations, and to meet in the field the veteran warriors of England. It was this which caused genius to start into life in all parts of our land. It was this which turned even feminine gentleness into courage, and caused woman, who before would shudder if the "breeze of summer visited her too roughly," to dare all things and endure all things for her country. This urged the gallant La Fayette to leave the bosom of friends and family, and the allurements of wealth and rank, to unite his fortunes with our destiny, then unpromising, but which gloriously resulted in the advent of

That hour when a voice had come forth from the West,
To the slave bringing hope, to the tyrant alarms,
And a lesson long looked for was taught the oppressed,
That kings are as dust before freemen in arms.

This induced the greatest bard of modern times, whose untimely fate the friends of liberty mourn, to devote his energies to the redemption of the land which had enriched his song, and which his song had hallowed. It was this which animated the lips of Demosthenes with that power and vehemence that have made him the wonder and the despair of all succeeding orators-this which gave its eloquent persuasion to the honied tongue of Cicero. It was this that made Chatham seem more than human, when at the time of our struggle, he dared to say in the British Parliament: "But were I an American as I am an Englishman, while a foreign troop was landed in my soil, I never would lay down my arms, no, never!" This gave to Fox his matchless ardor and energy, which surprised into a momentary show of human feeling "the wire-drawn puppets, the deaf and dumb things of a Court." Let men have a motive to urge them on, and almost any thing is within their reach. And what motive can be greater than the desire to obtain freedom? for without this nothing is desirable.

The advocates of despotic governments delight in quoting

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examples of popular misrule. They talk of treasuries rifled and granaries plundered by a populace - but what do they say of extortion that beggars, and monopolies that starve? They speak with abhorrence of the tumultuous disorders and the irregular license of a multitude — but in the same breath you hear them flattering the mighty authors of systematic violence and organized rapine and bloodshed, palliated in their eyes by the glare of wealth and pomp of birth. Cruelty or outrage, which they can in any way connect with democracy, to their delicate nerves is terrible indeed, -— but the grinding oppression of an aristocracy, the oceans of blood shed by despots, murders in form of law, proscriptions, imposts, confiscations and wanton inflictions and base cruelty — all these are nothing! It is nothing to them that so many noble spirits, whose only crime was to long for freedom, have been immured in dungeons to pine away their lives in loathsome decay—that the energies of whole nations have been repressed, (like those of Ireland at the present day) that whole countries have been depopulated by the misery that follows the invader's march - that whole un

offending communities have been put to the sword by the eager ambition of despots! The fate of so many honest industrious poor, who struggle in vain to overcome undeserved but remediless misery the wo of beings brutalized with slavery, and kept in ignorant vassalage, lest they should learn to use their strength-the human mind degraded, " cabined, cribbed, confined" opinion persecuted-conscience insulted-the blaze of faggots gathered round innocents the massacres of women and children -the sufferings of martyrs—all these, to them, are nothing! Show me one act of cruelty or injustice by mobs, and I will show you an hundred by tyrants! And which is the more excusable—the uprising of human beings, with countenances savage with want, and eyes hollow and glaring with wo, to procure the necessaries of life. ay, or if you choose it, to drink the blood of their oppressors, or the regular march of a standing army in the employ of a tyrant, paid for murder, and proceeding on their bloody

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