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THE POST OF HONOR.
In thy gay capital, bewildering France, Where Pleasure's shuttle weaves the whirling dance,Beneath the shelter of St. Mary's dome,Where pallid suffering seeks and finds a home,Methinks I see that sainted sister now11Wipe. Death's cold dew-drops from an infant's brow;Can I forget that mild, seraphic graceWith heaven-eyed Patience meeting in her face?Ah, sure, if angels leave celestial spheres, We saw an angel dry a mortal's tears.
 'T was thine, Jerome, when shuddering nature cried12For aid and rescue from the burning tide,"T was thine, with vigorous arm, and manly breath,To leap through danger, and to snatch from death;—Though prince and peer assumed their noblest mien,Thou wert the Ocean Monarch of that scene. Where e'er his camp-fires glistened on the sod, Humane as brave, our latest Conqueror trod;Honored not most when flying shaft and ballSwept like red hail on Buena Vista's wall,
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