From France to the Pope

Made our God again, Pope Pius!
Worthy to be worshipt by us!
Come to Paris, and put on
Thy true son Napoleon
(Blest afresh) that glorious crown
Crushing crippled Europe down,
Leaving not a house but shed
Tears for some one maim'd or dead,
None but where some father sate,
Or some mother, desolate,
Or some maiden tore her hair,
Or some widow shriekt despair,
Or the wolf, when all were gone,
Claim'd the ruin for his own,
Drowsy, and his only fear
When the viper crept too near.
Men three millions, French the most,
Each a soldier, now a ghost,
Watch his tomb. We venerate
(Name he chose) the Man of fate.
Come, our God again, Pope Pius!
Worthy to be worship! by us!
Not for him thy help we call
Who built up an icy wall
Of men's bodies, all the way
From where Moscow's cinders lay
To the Danube's fetter'd Hood,
Where side-looking Franz then stood,
Salesman of his flesh and blood . . .
But for one who far outwits
Keenest- witted Jesuits,
And without a blush outlies
Thee and all thy perjuries.