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TOMB OF JOSEPHINE.
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TOMB OF JOSEPHINE.


She, who o'er earth's most polished clime
    The empress-crown did wear,
And touch the zenith-point of power,
    The nadir of despair,

With all her charms and all her wrongs,
    Beneath this turf doth rest,
Where boldly spring two clasping hands,
    To guard her pulseless breast.

Say, did his love, who ruled her heart,
    This fair memorial rear,
And soothe the unrequited shade
    With late, remorseful tear?

Came he, with sweet funereal flowers
    To deck her couch of gloom,
And like repentant Athens bless
    The guiltless martyr's tomb?

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