Volume 5 — From the Italian of Manzoni. The Death of Napoleon. [Footnote 116]

May 5, 1821. He's gone: as void of motion lay, When the last breath had winged its way, His stiffened corse—of such a soul Bereft so struck from pole to pole, The astonished world astounded hung, When in its ears his death knell rung: Silent in dumb reflective power It mused upon the final hour Of that great man—that man of fate, And knows not, if with equal weight A mortal foot shall ever press Its bloody dust with such success.

Him shining on a gorgeous throne My muse beheld—nor struck one tone While fortune's wheel its circles flies. He falls, gets up—then prostrate lies; While thousand voices rend the air, Her voice amongst them none can hear. Exempt from every servile praise, For outrage base she forms no lays; But now, when such a beam had fled, She quickly rears her drooping head, And round his urn, with heaving sigh, She weaves a song that may not die. From Alpine heights to Egypt's shrine, From Mansanares to the Rhine, His thunderbolts unerring flew Close to his vivid lightning's hue, From Scylla to the Tanais roars, From Asia's bounds to Adria's shores. Was this true glory? undefiled? Posterity, just, unbeguiled, The arduous sentence must proclaim, Whilst we before our Maker's name Must bow—who wished in him to shine An impress vast of hands divine. He felt the stormy, trepid joy Of great designs—without alloy; The anxious heart—its feverish pains— That eager burn—to seize the reins That guide to power's airy height. He grasped them, and with hardy might He gained the proud reward—which seemed To all a folly e'en t' have dreamed. All things he tried: bright glory's sweet Increased by frightful danger's heat, Fair vict'ry's smiles, and sadd'ning flight, The sunny throne, and exile's night: Twice prostrate in the dust he lay, And twice he blazed in glory's day. His name was heard: submissive turned Two ages—that with fury burned— And, trembling, stood before his seat, In expectation of their fate: He bade them hush with lordly frown, And as their umpire sat him down. He disappeared: his shortened days He closed, far from the busy gaze Of men—a mark for envy's dart, For purest piety of heart, For hate, that can no act approve, And for indomitable love.

As o'er the shipwrecked sailor's head The wave rolls up, with terror dread, That wave, from whose bleak top before He searched, in vain, for distant shore; Soon that soul the sick'ning weight Of mem'ry felt, and brooding sat. How oft be undertook to paint Himself to future days—when faint Upon the eternal pages sunk His hand, and in himself he shrunk. How oft, upon the silent close Of some dull, tedious days, he rose, And bending down his lightning eyes— His hand thrust in his bosom lies— He stood: and gloomy mem'ry's roll Of days gone by attacked his soul! He thought upon the tented field, The sounding plain with bayonets steeled, The splendor of his marshalled brave, The chargers rolling in a wave, The throbbing breast, the quick command, And prompt obedience of his band. Perhaps with torturing cares opprest, His wearied spirit found no rest, And he despaired: but quick was given An aiding hand from piteous heaven, To lift him up—from this dark sphere, And place him in more genial air. And through hope's smiling, flow'ry way To guide him to the fields of day; To those rewards that far transcend The hope that vast desires lend: Where gulfed in darkness sinks each ray Of glory that has passed away. O faith immortal! beauteous! kind! Turn'd to triumphs o'er the mind! Write this one too—rejoice! be glad! For never yet a prouder head, Or one on loftier deeds intent, To Calv'ry's infamy has bent! Off from his ashes do thou guard All malice black—each venomed word The God who overthrows—and when To pity moved—rears up again— Who scatters terror to the poles! The God who, when he wills, consoles; That God has placed himself beside The desert couch—on which he died.