Now born again, from depths where thou wert hurled,
    A radiant eagle dost thou rise;
  Winging thy flight again to rule the world,
    Thine image reascends the skies. 
  No longer now the robber of a crown,—­
    The insolent usurper,—­he,
  With cushions of a throne, unpitying, down
    Who pressed the throat of Liberty,—­
  Old slave of the Alliance, sad and lone,
    Who died upon a sombre rock,
  And France’s image until death dragged on
    For chain, beneath the stranger’s stroke,—­
  NAPOLEON stands, unsullied by a stain: 
    Thanks to the flatterer’s tuneful race
  The lying poets who ring praises vain,
    Has Caesar ’mong the gods found place! 
  His image to the city-walls gives light;
    His name has made the city’s hum,—­
  Still sounded ceaselessly, as through the fight
    It echoed farther than the drum. 
  From the high suburbs, where the people crowd,
    Doth Paris, an old pilgrim now,
  Each day descend to greet the pillar proud,
    And humble there his monarch brow;—­
  The arms encumbered with a mortal wreath,
    With flowers for that bronze’s pall,
  (No mothers look on, as they pass beneath,—­
    It grew beneath their tears so tall!)—­
  In working-vest, in drunkenness of soul,
    Unto the fife’s and trumpet’s tone,
  Doth joyous Paris dance the Carmagnole
    Around the great Napoleon.

  Thus, Gentle Monarchs, pass unnoted on! 
    Mild Pastors of Mankind, away! 
  Sages, depart, as common brows have gone,
    Devoid of the immortal ray! 
  For vainly you make light the people’s chain;
    And vainly, like a calm flock, come
  On your own footsteps, without sweat or pain,
    The people,—­treading towards their tomb. 
  Soon as your star doth to its setting glide,
    And its last lustre shall be given
  By your quenched name,—­upon the popular tide
    Scarce a faint furrow shall be riven. 
  Pass, pass ye on!  For you no statue high! 
    Your names shall vanish from the horde: 
  Their memory is for those who lead to die
    Beneath the cannon and the sword;
  Their love, for him who on the humid field
    By thousands lays to rot their bones;
  For him, who bids them pyramids to build,—­
    And bear upon their backs the stones!

From the French of AUGUSTE BARBIER.

* * * * *

ON THE WARRES IN IRELAND.

FROM “EPIGRAMS,” BOOK IV.  EPIGRAM 6.

  I praised the speech, but cannot now abide it,
  That warre is sweet to those that have not try’d it;
  For I have proved it now and plainly see’t,
  It is so sweet, it maketh all things sweet. 
  At home Canaric wines and Greek grow lothsome;
  Here milk is nectar, water tasteth toothsome. 
  There without baked, rost, boyl’d,