Perhaps the features of romance were never more fully developed than in
the last days and death of Murat, King of Naples. To speak panegyrically
of his prowess, is supererogatory; as his bravery has been the theme of
history and of song. But a pathetic paper in _Blackwood's Magazine_,
affectingly describes his fall from splendour and popularity to servile
degradation and unmerited military death. He has many claims on our
interest and pity; whether we view him as the enthusiastic leader of
Napoleon's chosen, against the wily Russians, in the romantic array of
"a theatrical king," bearing down all impediment; or the plumeless and
proscribed monarch of "shreds and patches," hiding from his enemies
amidst the withered spoils of the forest. The writer of the paper
referred to, in describing his arrival at Ajaccio, says, "I was sitting
at my door, when I beheld a man approach me, _with the gaiters and shoes
of a common soldier_. Looking up, I beheld before me Joachim II. the
splendid King of Naples! I uttered a cry, and fell upon my knees!"
Escap'd from wreck and storm of fickle seas,
Degraded, plunder'd, sought for by his foes,
Brave Murat went, a weary, exil'd king,
Unto the land that gave Napoleon life;
And he who was the head of armies, when
His sabre slew opposing multitudes;
Whose dauntless spirit knew no other words
In fiercest strife, but "Soldiers, follow me!"
Came a poor, drooping, broken, lonely man,
To meet reproach, and harsh vicissitude,
Base persecution, and destroying hope;
To drain the cup of human suffering dry,
From which his fever'd lips had scarce refrain'd;
When in the tangled wood he trembling lay,
Weary and worn, expos'd to sun and storm,
Hunger and cold, and nature's helplessness.
And when Ajaccio's walls rung with the shouts
For Naples' ruler, he of warlike fame,
It wrung his spirit to remember when
That city hail'd him as her only star,
Worthy to reign where Masaniello rul'd.
Dejected chief! the tears forsook his eyes,
When on his vision rush'd the bygone love
Applauding thousands bore him, as he rode
In pride imperial 'midst the bending throng.
The gathering crowds along Ajaccio's streets
Felt Freedom's fervor kindle in their souls;
And Murat's banner fann'd the glorious flame.
"'Tis past," he cried, "and now I proudly come,
O, shameless Naples! in thy arms to die,
Or nobly live."
"Now blood for tears! my sword, my sword!
Be thou unsheath'd in Naples' cause,
I'll meet again the battle horde,
And beard the bravest of my foes!
"Proud Austria! I will drive thee back,
Deem not that Naples' throne is thine;
For soon shall Murat's bivouac
Keep watch upon thy tented line.
"Nor taunt of enemy shall move,
Nor bitterest suffering shall degrade,
My heart--for with my people's love
My daring will be richly paid.
"Hearts like my own! that hem me now,
The ground we tread is sacred earth,
Prove not the soil from which ye sprang
Unworthy of Napoleon's birth.
"On to the struggle! we shall gain
Adherents to our patriot cause;
Shake off the exile's hated name,
And abrogate the despot's laws.
"Insulted, wrong'd, and robb'd of all,
My feelings scarce could brook my fate;
But I will gain my crown or fall
Before degraded Naples' gate!"
Midnight descended on Calabria's coast,
And Murat's little fleet wore sailing there;
No peering moon lit up the lonely sea,
But all was sable as his wayward fate.
A storm dispers'd them, and Sardinia's isle
Receiv'd the bark that held the hapless king,
And morn beheld it on the main again;
But far apart his faithful followers.
Calabria's beach was gain'd; where Murat stood
Amidst the dastard throng that hemm'd him round,
With heart of adamant, and eye of fire.
There is a majesty in kingly hearts
Which changing time nor fickle fate can quell:
He stood--reveal'd from his own lips, "The King
Of fallen Naples." At those stirring words
A hundred swords unsheath'd; for on his head
A princely price was set, and flight he scorn'd;
For grasp'd his hand the well-accustom'd blade;
And _vainly_ fought--
* * * * *
His hour is come! behold the dauntless man
Baring his bosom to the stern platoon:
And parted friends, and pardon'd enemies,
Relinquish'd glory, and forgotten scorn,
Are naught to him--but o'er his war-worn face
A momentary gleam of passion flits--
To think _that he who wore that diadem
The second Caesar placed upon his brows_,
(No cold inheritance of legal right,
But truly bought by bravery and blood.)
Should die with traitor branded on, his fame.
His hand enfolds a small cornelian seal,
A portrait of his queen,--on which his eyes
Are fondly fix'd. The final word is given,
And Murat falls: ah! who would be a king!
* * H.
* * * * *