And feeds the wild ambition which consumes

All that is good and lovely in his path.

He flashes, like a meteor, on the sight,

Seen 'mid the angry thunder-clouds of war,

Seeking a living name in fields where Death

Holds his imperial banquet, and the blood

Of thousands flows to furnish forth the feast.

There was a time when softer feelings held

Their mild dominion o'er that haughty breast;

When at his mother's feet, a rosy boy,

He wove bright garlands for his artless brow,

And sought, with playful dalliance, to detain

The busy hand that could not pause to bind

His cumbrous wreath, or answer the caress

Of him who climbed her knees to steal the kiss.

But even at those tender years, his braid

Of April blossoms was his crown; the twig

Of golden willow, with white daisies bound,

[Pg 16]

His jewelled sceptre; and the mossy bank,

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