Napoleon

I love no land so well as that of France —
Land of Napoleon and Charlemagne,
Renown'd for valour, women, wit, and dance,
For racy Burgundy, and bright Champagne,
Whose only word in battle was, Advance;
While that grand genius, who seem'd born to reign,
Greater than Ammos's son, who boasted birth
From heaven, and spurn'd all sons of earth;
Greater than he who wore his buskins high,
A Venus arm'd, impress'd upon his seal;
Who smiled at poor Calphurnia's prophecy,
Nor fear'd the stroke he soon was doom'd to feel;
Who on the ides of March breath'd his last sigh,
As Brutus pluck'd away his "cursed steel,"
Exclaiming, as he expired, "Et tu, Brute,"
But Brutus thought he only did his duty;
Greater than he, who, at nine years of age,
On Carthage' altar swore eternal hate;
Who, with a rancour time could ne'er assuage,
With feelings no reverse could moderate,
With talents such as few would dare engage,
With hopes that no misfortune could abate,
Died like his rival, both with broken hearts, —
Such was their fate, and such was Bonaparte's.
Napoleon Bonaparte! thy name shall live
Till time's last echo shall have ceased to sound;
And if eternity's confines can give
To space reverberation, round and round
The spheres of heaven, the long, deep cry of "Vive
Napoleon!" in thunders shall rebound;
The lightning's flash shall blaze thy name on high,
Monarch of earth, now meteor of the sky!
What though on St. Helena's rocky shore
Thy head be pillow'd, and thy form entomb'd,
Perhaps that son, the child thou didst adore,
Fired with a father's fame, may yet be doom'd
To crush the bigot Bourbon, and restore
Thy mouldering ashes ere they be consumed;
Perhaps may run the course thyself didst run,
And light the world, as comets light the sun.
'Tis better thou art gone: 'twere sad to see,
Beneath an "imbecile's impotent reign,"
Thine own unvanquish'd legions doom'd to be
Cursed instruments of vengeance on poor Spain,
That land, so glorious once in chivalry,
Now sunk in slavery and shame again;
To see the imperial guard, thy dauntless band,
Made tools for such a wretch as Ferdinand.
Farewell, Napoleon! thine hour is past;
No more earth trembles at thy dreaded name;
But France, unhappy France, shall long contrast
Thy deeds with those of worthless D'Angouleme.
Ye gods! how long shall slavery's thraldom last!
Will France alone remain forever tame!
Say, will no Wallace, will no Washington
Scourge from thy soil the infamous Bourbon?
Is Freedom dead? Is Nero's reign restored?
Frenchmen! remember Jena, Austerlitz:
The first, which made thy emperor the lord
Of Prussia, and which almost threw in fits
Great Frederick William; he who, at the board,
Took all the Prussian uniform to bits;
Frederick, the king of regimental tailors,
As Hudson Lowe, the very prince of jailors.
Farewell, Napoleon! couldst thou have died
The coward scorpion's death, afraid, ashamed
To meet adversity's advancing tide,
The weak had praised thee, but the wise had blamed;
But no! though torn from country, child, and bride
With spirit unsubdued, with soul untamed.
Great in misfortune, as in glory high,
Thou daredst to live through life's worst agony.
Pity, for thee, shall weep her fountains dry,
Mercy, for thee, shall bankrupt all her store;
Valour shall pluck a garland from on high,
And Honour twine the wreath thy temples o'er;
Beauty shall beckon to thee from the sky,
And smiling seraphs open wide heaven's door;
Around thy head the brightest stars shall meet,
And rolling suns play sportive at thy feet.
Farewell, Napoleon! a long farewell,
A stranger's tongue, alas! must hymn thy worth;
No craven Gaul dares wake his harp to tell,
Or sound in song the spot that gave thee birth.
No more thy name, that, with its magic spell,
Aroused the slumbering nations of the earth,
Echoes around thy land; 'tis past — at length
France sinks beneath the sway of Chaki.es the
Tenth.