And he who was the conqu'ror of the globe,
Died in sad exile in this lonely isle.

None are all evil”—and he had his virtues:

Though sternness often sat upon his brow,
Yet kindness oftener reigned within his heart:
His countenance beam'd the index of his mind,

And that was noble, princely, generous,
And courteous, condescending, affable.-
Whilst in this Isle of his captivity,

Mid all the evils of his adverse fate,
A prey to painful, lingering, disease,
He suffer'd all as suffering nothing, yea!
Forgot his own in soothing other's griefs;
For, like the giant rock on which he stood,

That bears th' eternal war of winds, and waves,

He bore unmov'd-how long!-the raging blasts,

And beating billows of adversity.

But, above all, while yet he sojourn'd here,

His life was innocent and virtuous :

With time, and means to riot in excess

Indulging in no sensual appetite

He liv'd retir'd, abstemious, temperate;

And thus, shut out from all the busy world,
He strove timprove the remnant of his days
In studious reading; or, like mighty Cæsar,
Framing his strange, eventful history.
His recreative hours were calmly spent

In innocent, and elegant delights,

Amid the beauties of his garden fair

Bright blooming flowers, and rich exotic shrubs,

Which brighter bloom'd beneath his tasteful hand

For he himself had fram'd this fairy spot,

And he would show as fond solicitude

In training up some rosy, favourite flower,

As though 't had been his own bright-blooming boy,
Whom cruel fate had sever'd from his side,

And whom his soul the more did doat upon;
For in his heart did dwell each tender tie-
A Father's fondness-and a Husband's love,

And here, shut out from all intrusive gaze,

Hid in cool grot from broad day's garish eye,
Thro' which a little babbling runnel stray'd,

He'd muse upon the memory of the past—

His wife, child, country, and that cruel fate,
Which thus had torn them from his arms for ever.

Oft have I gazed upon this wondrous man,
But aye with strange emotions, undefin'd,

Akin to fearful dread and wonderment,

As if oppress'd by some mysterious power;
Like some poor bird beneath the serpent's gaze,
Spell-bound, and shivering, with sudden fear.
For, O! there was a magic in his eye,
That seem'd to penetrate the very soul,
And trace all secrets deeply buried there :
This could he read the thoughts of other men,
Himself-a sealed book-unread the while.
There was a withering lightning in his frown,
Which could appal the boldest gazer's heart:

But, O! for those he loved, or lov'd to please,

D

There was a fascination in his smile

That won all hearts at once to worship him:

And what his frown sometimes could not effect,

His smile could-even subdue his enemies.

This made him what he was-his nation's idol.

But I did gaze upon that eye, how chang'd!

When all its bright celestial fire had fled;

Upon that pallid lip, where, e'en in death,
That smile still lingering play'd, that won all hearts;
And I did hold that pale, cold hand in mine,
Which once did grasp the sceptre of the world.

For I had watch'd him withering leaf by leaf,

E're yet the summer of his had fled;

years

Like some tall monarch of the shady grove,
Torn from its parent earth and sunny skies,
To droop, and die, in uncongenial clime.-
But, O! that day I never may forget-
For I was present on that mournful morn,
When hears'd in death, in solemn sad array
I saw them bear him to the silent tomb,