Vain were their wishes, all their envy vain,
They could not bring the soarer to the plain;--
Till Fate's fell arrow--surer than the rest--
Winged the far flight, and pierced his glorious breast.
Then fell Napoleon, Eagle of his clime,
By Fate's fell shaft, from yon proud heaven sublime:
And when he fell, France knew no keener woe,
Then the deep piercing of that mortal blow.
The sweet land drooped, and sickened in her grief--
That hope so happy, had given truth so brief--
That Fate's fell shaft her glorious Bird had slain,
No more o'er conquered earth to soar again.

But not at once Napoleon breathes his last--
More woes must come--if now the worst be past.
Napoleon's star, declining on his eye,
Tells France shall yield him not a place to die.
That he must hie him to an alien shore,
And see his France, and blue-eyed boy no more.
The noble Lion must be chained at length,
By Fate's strong force, though not by man's weak strength.
But, harmless now, that meaner things shall prey
On whom they fled from, in his Glory's day.
Oh! when the Chieftain turned to wave adieu
To lovely France, across the waters blue,
The iron man who never quailed in war,
Where Death's conspiring darts flew fast and far--
If peering Envy marked no gushing tear--
Wept, wept to leave the land that was so dear--
And if that woe was mute--it was more deep,