Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte

'Tis done--but yesterday a King!And armed with Kings to strive--And now thou art a nameless thing:So abject--yet alive!Is this the man of thousand thrones,Who strewed our earth with hostile bones,And can he thus survive?Since he, miscalled the Morning Star,Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far.

Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kindWho bowed so low the knee?By gazing on thyself grown blind,Thou taught'st the rest to see.With might unquestioned,--power to save,--Thine only gift hath been the graveTo those that worshipped thee;Nor till thy fall could mortals guessAmbition's less than littleness!

Thanks for that lesson--it will teachTo after-warriors moreThan high Philosophy can preach,And vainly preached before.That spell upon the minds of menBreaks never to unite again,That led them to adoreThose Pagod things of sabre-sway,With fronts of brass, and feet of clay.

The triumph, and the vanity,The rapture of the strife--The earthquake-voice of Victory,To thee the breath of life;The sword, the sceptre, and that swayWhich man seemed made but to obey,Wherewith renown was rife--All quelled!--Dark Spirit! what must beThe madness of thy memory!

The Desolator desolate!The Victor overthrown!The Arbiter of others' fateA Suppliant for his own!Is it some yet imperial hopeThat with such change can calmly cope?Or dread of death alone?To die a Prince--or live a slave--Thy choice is most ignobly brave!

He who of old would rend the oak,Dreamed not of the rebound;Chained by the trunk he vainly broke--Alone--how looked he round?Thou, in the sternness of thy strength,An equal deed hast done at length.And darker fate hast found:He fell, the forest prowlers' prey;But thou must eat thy heart away!

The Roman, when his burning heartWas slaked with blood of Rome,Threw down the dagger--dared depart,In savage grandeur, home.--He dared depart in utter scornOf men that such a yoke had borne,Yet left him such a doom!His only glory was that hourOf self-upheld abandoned power.

The Spaniard, when the lust of swayHad lost its quickening spell,Cast crowns for rosaries away,An empire for a cell;A strict accountant of his beads,A subtle disputant on creeds,His dotage trifled well:Yet better had he neither knownA bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne.

But thou--from thy reluctant handThe thunderbolt is wrung--Too late thou leav'st the high commandTo which thy weakness clung;All Evil Spirit as thou art,It is enough to grieve the heartTo see thine own unstrung;To think that God's fair world hath beenThe footstool of a thing so mean;

And Earth hath spilt her blood for him,Who thus can hoard his own!And Monarchs bowed the trembling limb,And thanked him for a throne!Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear,When thus thy mightiest foes their fearIn humblest guise have shown.Oh! ne'er may tyrant leave behindA brighter name to lure mankind!

Thine evil deeds are writ in gore,Nor written thus in vain--Thy triumphs tell of fame no more,Or deepen every stain:If thou hadst died as Honour dies,Some new Napoleon might arise,To shame the world again--But who would soar the solar height,To set in such a starless night?ip

Weigh'd in the balance, hero dustIs vile as vulgar clay;iqThy scales, Mortality! are justTo all that pass away:But yet methought the living greatSome higher sparks should animate,To dazzle and dismay:Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make mirthOf these, the Conquerors of the earth.

And she, proud Austria's mournful flower,Thy still imperial bride;How bears her breast the torturing hour?Still clings she to thy side?Must she too bend, must she too shareThy late repentance, long despair,Thou throneless Homicide?If still she loves thee, hoard that gem,--'Tis worth thy vanished diadem!

Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle,And gaze upon the sea;irThat element may meet thy smile--It ne'er was ruled by thee!Or trace with thine all idle handisIn loitering mood upon the sandThat Earth is now as free!That Corinth's pedagogue hath nowTransferred his by-word to thy brow.

Thou Timour! in his captive's cageitWhat thoughts will there be thine,While brooding in thy prisoned rage?But one--"The world was mine!"Unless, like he of Babylon,All sense is with thy sceptre gone,Life will not long confineThat spirit poured so widely forth--So long obeyed--so little worth!

Or, like the thief of fire from heaven,Wilt thou withstand the shock?And share with him, the unforgiven,His vulture and his rock!Foredoomed by God--by man accurst,iuAnd that last act, though not thy worst,The very Fiend's arch mock;He in his fall preserved his pride,And, if a mortal, had as proudly died!iv

There was a day--there was an hour,While earth was Gaul's--Gaul thine--iwWhen that immeasurable powerUnsated to resignHad been an act of purer fameThan gathers round Marengo's nameAnd gilded thy decline,Through the long twilight of all time,Despite some passing clouds of crime.

But thou forsooth must be a KingAnd don the purple vest,As if that foolish robe could wringRemembrance from thy breast.Where is that faded garment? whereixThe gewgaws thou wert fond to wear,The star, the string, the crest?iyVain froward child of Empire! say,Are all thy playthings snatched away?

Where may the wearied eye reposeizWhen gazing on the Great;Where neither guilty glory glows,Nor despicable state?Yes--One--the first--the last--the best--The Cincinnatus of the West,Whom Envy dared not hate,Bequeathed the name of Washington,To make man blush there was but one!ja