Nor on some kindlier shore my woes beguile.

My son! my darling son! wert thou but here,
My bosom should receive thy lovely form:
Thou'dst soothe my gloomy hours with converse dear:
Serenely mild behold the lowering storm.

I'd be the partner of thy infant cares,
And pour instruction o'er thy expanding mind;
Whilst in thy heart, in my declining years,
My wearied soul should an asylum find.

My wrongs--my cares--should be forgot with thee,
My power--imperial dignities--renown--
This rock itself would be a heaven to me;
Thine arms more cherished than the victor's crown.

O! in thine arms, my son! I could forget that fame
Shall give me, through all time, a never dying name.

(Signed.) NAPOLEON.


Another version is subjoined of lines, "To the Portrait of My Son."


O! Cherished image of my infant heir!
Thy surface does his lineaments impart:--
But ah! thou liv'st not. On this rock so bare
His living form shall never glad my heart.