Part 2 — NAPOLEON.
Reading edition
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BY J. E. DOW.
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“About the twenty-second of January, 1821, Napoleon’s energies revived. He mounted his horse and galloped for the last time around Longwood, but nature was overcome by the effort.”
Chained to a wild and sea-girt rock
Where the volcano’s fires were dead;
He woke to hear the surges mock
The living thunder o’er his head.
His charger spurned the mountain turf,
For he o’er glaciered Alps had trod,—
He scorned to bear the island serf,
And only stood to Europe’s God.
And now, the prisoner’s spirit soared,
And fiercely glanced his eagle eye;
He grasped again his crimson sword,
And bade his silken eagle fly.
High on a cliff, that braved the storm,
And beat the thundering ocean back;
He felt the life-blood coursing warm
As oft in mountain bivouac.
Around him bowed a bannered world:
And lightnings played beneath his feet;
The storm’s wild ensign o’er him curled,
And ocean drums his grand march beat.
Above the Alps’ eternal snows
He led his freezing legions on:
And when the morning sun arose—
The land of deathless song was won.
The desert waste before him rolled,
And haughty Mam’lukes bit the ground;
Old Cairo reared her mosques of gold,
And Nile returned his bugle’s sound.
The doors of centuries opened wide
Before the master spirit’s blows,
And flapped his eagles’ wings in pride
Above the time-dried Pharoahs.
Then northward moved his chainless soul,
And Europe’s host in wrath he met,
The Danube heard his drum’s wild roll,
And Wagram dimmed his bayonet.
On many a field his cannons rung,
The Nations heard his wild hurrah:
And brazen gates were open flung,
To usher in the Conqueror.
The Cossack yelled his dread advance,
And legions bared their scymetars,
When with the infantry of France
He trampled on the sleeping Czars.
And Moscow’s sea of fire arose
Upon the dark and stormy sky,
While cohorts, in their stirrups froze,
Or pillowed on the snow to die.
A merry strain the lancers blew
When morning o’er his legions shone!
But evening closed o’er Waterloo,
And death, dread sentinel, watch’d alone.
His eagles to the dust were hurled,
And bright Marengo’s star grew dim,
The conqueror of half the world,
Had none to sooth or pity him.
And he has come to view again
The hills his flashing sword hath won:
To hear the music of the main,
And note the thunder’s evening gun.
His heart is cold, his eye is dim,
His burning brand shall blaze no more;
The living world is dead to him,
The sea’s wild dash, the tempest’s roar.
Marengo’s cloak is round him cast,
And Jena’s blade is by his side,
But where is now his trumpet’s blast?
And where the soldiers of his pride?
They sleep by Nilus’ bull-rushed wave,
They slumber on the Danube’s bed;
The earth is but a common grave
For gallant France’s immortal dead.
His charger rushes from the height:
The fitful dream of life is o’er,
And oh! that eye that beamed so bright,
Shall never wake to glory more.
Beneath the mountain’s misty head,
Where streamed the lava’s burning tide.
They made the scourge of Europe’s bed,
And laid his falchion by his side.
He sleeps alone, as sweetly now
As they who fell by Neva’s shore:
And peasants near him guide the plough,
And craven Europe fears no more.
He sleeps alone—nor shall he start
Till Time’s last trumpet rings the wave:
For death has still’d the mighty heart
Where fierce ambition made his grave.
’Tis sad to view, when day grows dim,
The stone that closed o’er Europe’s fears:
And listen to the waves’ wild hymn,
That swallowed up the exile’s tears.
The eagle screams his dirge by day,
The tempest answers, and the sea,
And streaming lightnings leap to play
Above the man of Destiny.
Washington, February, 1841.