The Tomb of Josephine

Empress of Earth's most polish'd clime!Whose path of splendid careDid touch the zenith-point of hope,The nadir of despair,—Here doth thy wrong'd, confiding heartResign its tortur'd thrill,And slumber like the peasant's dust,All unconcern'd and still?

Did Love yon arch of marble rearTo mark the hallow'd ground?And bid those doric columns springWith clustering roses crown'd?Say,—did it come with gifts of peaceTo deck thy couch of gloom?And like relenting Athens blessIts guiltless martyr's tomb?

No!—no! the stern and callous breastSear'd by Ambition's flame,No kindlings of remorse confestAt thy remember'd name:Alike the Corsican abjur'dWith harsh and ingrate tone,The beauty and the love that pav'dHis pathway to a throne.

He turn'd in apathy to gazeUpon his Austrian bride,Nor heard dark fate's prophetic sighThat warn'd the fall of pride;Saw not the vision'd battle shockThat cleft his Babel fame,Nor mark'd on far Helena's rockA sepulchre of shame.

France!—France! by thy indignant zealWere fitting honors paid,And did thy weeping fondness soothThe unrequited shade?

Bad'st thou yon breathing statue striveHer faultless form to show?But rushing on in reckless mirth,That empire answered,—No.

Then lo!—a still small voice aroseAmid that silence drear,Such voice as from the cradle bedDoth charm the mother's ear,And then, methought, two clasping handsWere from that marble thrust,And strange their living freshness gleam'dAmid that sculptur'd dust.

Empress! the filial blossoms nurs'dWithin thy bosom's fold,Surviv'd the wreath that traitor LoveTo heartless glory sold,—Those hands thy monument have rear'dWhere pausing pilgrims come;That voice thy mournful requiem pour'dThough all the world was dumb.