A hundred swords unsheath'd; for on his head
A princely price was set, and flight he scorn'd;
For grasp'd his hand the well-accustom'd blade;
And _vainly_ fought--

* * * * *

His hour is come! behold the dauntless man
Baring his bosom to the stern platoon:
And parted friends, and pardon'd enemies,
Relinquish'd glory, and forgotten scorn,
Are naught to him--but o'er his war-worn face
A momentary gleam of passion flits--
To think _that he who wore that diadem
The second Caesar placed upon his brows_,
(No cold inheritance of legal right,
But truly bought by bravery and blood.)
Should die with traitor branded on, his fame.
His hand enfolds a small cornelian seal,
A portrait of his queen,--on which his eyes
Are fondly fix'd. The final word is given,
And Murat falls: ah! who would be a king!

* * H.

* * * * *



COAST BLOCKADE MEN.