ODE ΤΟ NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE. I. 'Tis done-but yesterday a King! Is this the man of thousand thrones, Since he, miscalled the Morning Star, II. Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind With might unquestioned,-power to save- To those that worshipped thee; III. Thanks for that lesson-it will teach To after-warriors more Than high Philosophy can preach, That spell upon the minds of men Those Pagod things of sabre-sway, IV. The triumph, and the vanity, All quelled!-Dark Spirit! what must be The Desolator desolate ! V. The Victor overthrown! The Arbiter of others' fate A Suppliant for his own! Is it some yet imperial hope That 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 drama e VI. He who of old would rend the bák, Dreamed not of the rebound Chained by the trunk he vainly broke,', Thou, in the sternness of thy strength, VII. The Roman, when his burning heart Was slaked with blood of Rome, Threw down the dagger-dared depart, In savage grandeur, home. He dared depart, in utter scorn Of men that such a yoke had borne, Yet left him such a doom! His only glory was that hour Of self-upheld abandoned power. VIII. The Spaniard, when the lust of sway Cast crowns for rosaries away, A strict accountant of his beads, Yet better had he neither known A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne... IX. But thou-from thy reluctant hand The thunderbolt is wrung Too late thou leav'st the high command To which thy weakness clung; All Evil Spirit as thou art, It is enough to grieve the heart, To see thine own unstrung; To think that God's fair world hath been The footstool of a thing so mean. X. And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, Who thus can hoard his own! And Monarchs bowed the trembling limb, Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear, XI. Thine evil deeds are writ in gore, If thou hadst died as honour dies, XII. Weighed in the balance, hero dust To all that pass away; But yet methought, the living great Some higher sparks should animate, To dazzle and dismay; Nor deemed Contempt could thus make mirth Of these, the Conquerors of the earth. XIII. And she, proud Austria's mournful flower, How bears her breast the torturing hour? Still clings she to thy side? Must she too bend, must she too share If still she loves thee, hoard that gem," XIV. Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, XV. Thou Timour! in his captive's cage |