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The plesant waters
Of the river Lee.
I've heard bells chiming
For memory, dwelling
Its bold notes free,
Of the river Lee.
I've heard bells tolling
From the Vatican,-
Of Notre Dame;
But thy sounds were sweeter
Of the river Lee. .
There 's a bell in Moscow;
The Turkman gets,
Of tall minarets.
Such empty phantom
More dear to me,-
The Death of Napoleon.
Wild was the night, yet a wilder night
Hung round the soldier's pillow;
Than the fight on the wrathful billow.
A few fond mourners were kneeling by,
The few that his stern heart cherished; They knew, by his glazed and unearthly eye,
That life had nearly perished.
They knew by his awful and kingly look,
By the order hastily spoken, That he dreamed of days when the nations shock,
And the nations' hosts were broken.
He dreamed that the Frenchman's sword still slew,
And triumphed the Frenchman's eagle,
Like the hare before the beagle.
The bearded Russian he scourged again,
The Prussian's camp was routed,
His mighty armies shouted.
Over Egypt's sands, over Alpine snows,
At the pyramids, at the mountain,
And by the Italian fountain,
On the snowy cliffs where mountain streams
Dash by the Switzer's dwelling,
His hosts, the broad earth quelling.
Again Marengo's field was won,
And Jena's bloody battle;
Made pale at his cannon's rattle.
He died at the close of that darksome day,
A day that shall live in story;
The Grave of Bonaparte.
In a lone barren isle, where the wild roaring billows
Assail the stern rock, and the loud tempests rave, The hero lies still, while the dew-drooping willows,
Like fond weeping mourners, lean over the grave.
The lightnings may flash, and the loud thunders rattle:
He heeds not, he hears not, he 's free from all pain;He sleeps his last sleep-he has fought his last battle!
No sound can awake him to glory again!
O shade of the mighty, where now are the legions
That rush'd but to conquer when thou led'st them on? Alas! they have perish'd in far hilly regions,
And all save the fame of their triumph is gonel The trumpet may sound, and the loud cannon rattle!
They heed not, they hear not, they 're free from all pain: They sleep their last sleep, they have fought their last battle!
No sound can awake them to glory again!
Yet, spirit immortal, the tomb cannot bind thee,
For, like thine ownı cayle that soaril to the sun, Thou springest from bondage and leavest behind thee
A name which before thee no mortal had won. Thongh nations may combat, und war's thunders rattle,
No more on the steed wilt thou sweep o'er the plain : Thou sleep'st thy last sleep, thou hast fought thy last battle! No sound can awake thee to glory again !
H. S. WASHBURN (?)
Of the swains in them parts, -
Of lovers she had a full score,
And fortunes they all had galore,
To the clerk of the Crown,
But so modest was Mistress Malone,
'T was known
They could ne'er catch her eye,
Till one Misther O'Brien, from Clare,
Gave ten kisses at laste,“O,” says he, "you 're my Molly Malone,
My ownl” “O," says he, “ you 're my Molly Malone.”
And the widow they all thought so shy,