“Now blood for tears! my sword, my sword! 
    Be thou unsheath’d in Naples’ cause,
  I’ll meet again the battle horde,
    And beard the bravest of my foes!

  “Proud Austria!  I will drive thee back,
    Deem not that Naples’ throne is thine;
  For soon shall Murat’s bivouac
    Keep watch upon thy tented line.

  “Nor taunt of enemy shall move,
    Nor bitterest suffering shall degrade,
  My heart—­for with my people’s love
    My daring will be richly paid.

  “Hearts like my own! that hem me now,
    The ground we tread is sacred earth,
  Prove not the soil from which ye sprang
    Unworthy of Napoleon’s birth.

  “On to the struggle! we shall gain
    Adherents to our patriot cause;
  Shake off the exile’s hated name,
    And abrogate the despot’s laws.

  “Insulted, wrong’d, and robb’d of all,
    My feelings scarce could brook my fate;
  But I will gain my crown or fall
    Before degraded Naples’ gate!”

  Midnight descended on Calabria’s coast,
  And Murat’s little fleet wore sailing there;
  No peering moon lit up the lonely sea,
  But all was sable as his wayward fate. 
  A storm dispers’d them, and Sardinia’s isle
  Receiv’d the bark that held the hapless king,
  And morn beheld it on the main again;
  But far apart his faithful followers. 
  Calabria’s beach was gain’d; where Murat stood
  Amidst the dastard throng that hemm’d him round,
  With heart of adamant, and eye of fire. 
  There is a majesty in kingly hearts
  Which changing time nor fickle fate can quell: 
  He stood—­reveal’d from his own lips, “The King
  Of fallen Naples.”  At those stirring words
  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.

(For the Mirror.)