[FN#22] An operation was performed at Paris by M. Richerande in
which the heart of a patient, who afterwards recovered, was laid bare.
The rough-browed warrior on the midnight deck
While stealing softness thro' his pulses glides,
By the moon's pensive rays
Regards with lengthened gaze,
The pictured form his scarry bosom hides
By day; that tho' death grasp, hangs smiling at his neck.
When fate has torn from the fond mother's arms
The tender hope her bosom fed, to thee
She flies;--and ere decay
Can mar his beauteous prey
Her arching eyes, amid their grief, can see,
Still dawning bright, to them, its early-blighted charms.
The generous youth who, fired by love of fame,
A victim at her bloody altars fell;
To the beloved ones reft,
By aid of thee, has left
His form, his lip, his ardent glance, to tell
How fair was he on earth who left it for a name.
The patriot--here a moment let my strain
Tremble before thy Stuart--who but he
Could bid mild Washington--
His god-loved labours done--
Thus sit before us breathing majesty,
And, in his deep blue eye, still life and soul retain?
Methinks, the while I gaze, each graceful line
So light imprinted on his forehead fair,
Where Wisdom sits serene
Of every sense the queen,
Seems as an embryo empire still were there,
While still his ample breast swells with the vast design.
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