as enveloped itself, half dissolved
itself, in a turbid atmosphere of French fanfaronade. The world was not
disposed to be trodden down under foot; to be bound into masses, and built
together as _he_ liked, for a pedestal for France and him: the world has
quite other purposes in view! Napoleon's astonishment is extreme. But
alas, what help now! He had gone that way of his; and Nature had also gone
her way. Having once parted with reality, he tumbles helpless in vacuity;
no rescue for him. He had to sink there mournfully as man seldom did; and
break his great heart and die--this poor Napoleon; a great implement too
soon wasted, till it was useless; our last Great Man!

THE FLORAL RESURRECTION.

BY THE SHEPHERD OF SHARONDALE.

Welcome, sweet flowers! bright Summer's poetry!
I hail your fragrant coming, and again
With joy I read your brilliant imagery
Written once more in nature's holiest strain:
The lowly cottage, and the princely hall
Your advent cherisheth--ye are all to all.

Rising in glory from their winter graves,
The painted Tulip comes, and Daisy fair,
And o'er the brook the fond Narcissus waves
Her golden cup--her image loving there.
Those early flowers their glowing tributes bring
To weave a chaplet round the brow of Spring.

The sultry sun of June looks down, and then
Comes forth the lovely rose, the garden's pride,
To herald summer over glade and glen,
O'er wild and waste, o'er mead and mountain side:
Proudly she rears her crest on high, the vain
And gay pursuivant of a brilliant train.

And now, bright Dahlia, heartless one, appear!
Thy time has come to join the festival:
Come, Peru's daughter, belle of night! dost fear
To wear in glorious day thy coronal?
And thou, pale exile from the holy land,
Imperial Lily! come and join the band!

See, o'er the lattice creeps the Eglantine,
And there the Jasmine clambers up the wall
To twine her wreaths with Flora's blushing queen,
Rejoicing all in summer's carnival:
How kind of them to deck the shepherd's cot,
And with their presence cheer his humble lot!

I love ye, flowers; your odors ever bring
Back visions of the past: I love ye well;
From the lone Primrose, nursling of the Spring,
Unto the beauteous Aster, Autumn's belle,
Or reared on verdant field, or ruined wall,
I love ye all, sweet flowers!--I love ye all!

THE LEGEND OF DON RODERICK