The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 14, No. 384, August 8, 1829. Various

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      "Where the broken line enlarging

      Fell or fled along the plain,

      There be sure was Murat charging:

      There he ne'er shall charge again."

      Escap'd from wreck and storm of fickle seas,

      Degraded, plunder'd, sought for by his foes,

      Brave Murat went, a weary, exil'd king,

      Unto the land that gave Napoleon life;

      And he who was the head of armies, when

      His sabre slew opposing multitudes;

      Whose dauntless spirit knew no other words

      In fiercest strife, but "Soldiers, follow me!"

      Came a poor, drooping, broken, lonely man,

      To meet reproach, and harsh vicissitude,

      Base persecution, and destroying hope;

      To drain the cup of human suffering dry,

      From which his fever'd lips had scarce refrain'd;

      When in the tangled wood he trembling lay,

      Weary and worn, expos'd to sun and storm,

      Hunger and cold, and nature's helplessness.

      And when Ajaccio's walls rung with the shouts

      For Naples' ruler, he of warlike fame,

      It wrung his spirit to remember when

      That city hail'd him as her only star,

      Worthy to reign where Masaniello rul'd.

      Dejected chief! the tears forsook his eyes,

      When on his vision rush'd the bygone love

      Applauding thousands bore him, as he rode

      In pride imperial 'midst the bending throng.

      The gathering crowds along Ajaccio's streets

      Felt Freedom's fervor kindle in their souls;

      And Murat's banner fann'd the glorious flame.

      "'Tis past," he cried, "and now I proudly come,

      O, shameless Naples! in thy arms to die,

      Or nobly live."

      "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

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