42 NAPOLEON AT HELENA.

And tiny Elba in the Tuscan wave Plung'd her slight annal with the haste of fear ; And lone Helena, sick at heart, and grey 'Neath rude Atlantic's scourging, bade the moon, With silent finger, point the traveller's gaze To an unhonoured tomb.

Then Earth arose,

That blind old empress, on her crumbling throne, And, to the echoed question " Who shall write Napoleon's epitaph ? " as one who broods O'er unforgiven injuries, answer 'd " None"

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