Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
France: Vols. IX–X. 1876–79.
Ode to the Column of Napoleon
By Victor Hugo (18021885)O
With indestructible materials made,
Alike secure from ruin and from rust,
Before whose might all monuments are dust,
The eternal Column, towering far on high,
Presents Napoleon’s throne unto the sky.
Fatigued with war, the lasting trophy planned,
That civil discord would retire in shame
Before the vast memorial of his name;
And that the nation would forget to praise
The deeds of those who shone in ancient days.
O’er smoking fields encumbered with the dead,
And from the presence of that host so true
Armies and kings in wild confusion flew,
Leaving their ponderous cannon on the plain,—
A prey to him and his victorious train!
By him who came triumphant as a god,
Bearing the spoils of the defeated world,—
He came mid joyous cries and flags unfurled,
Welcome as eagle to her infant brood
That waits on mountain-top its daily food!
Straightway proceeds to where the furnace flames;
And while his troops, with haste and zealous glow,
The massive ordnance in the caldron throw,
He to the meanest artisan unfolds
His plans to form the fashion of the moulds.
And from the foe the palm of conquest bore;—
He drove the opponent armies from the plain,
And seized their dread artillery again,
As good material for the Column high,
Built to perpetuate his memory!
The spur, the sabre, and the mortar’s din,—
These were his earliest sports till Egypt gave
Her ancient Pyramids his smile to save;
Then, when the imperial crown adorned his brow,
He raised the monument we reverence now!
Which e’er the historian’s annals might engage
Furnished the subject, and the end of time
Shall boast that emblem of his course sublime,
Where Rhine and Tiber rolled in crimson flood,
And the tall snow-capped Alps all trembling stood!
Ossa on Pelion, mount on mountain, rolled,
To scale high heaven’s towers, so he has made
His battles serve to help his escalade;
And thus to gratify his fancy wild,
Wagram, Arcole, on Austerlitz were piled!
The eyes of all beamed gladness and delight,
When, with unruffled visage, thou didst come,
Hero of France! unto the Place Vendôme
To mark thy Column towering from the ground,
And the four eagles ranged the base around.
As erst the Romans flocked to Æmilius’ side,—
’T was then each child—each infant, on whose head
Six summers scarcely had their radiance shed—
Murmured applause, and clapped their little hands,
And spied their fathers midst thy serried bands.
Pondering on conquest, majesty, and state,
Who would have thought that e’er the time could be
When a base senate should dishonor thee,
And cavil o’er thine ashes, for Vendôme
At least is worthy to become thy tomb!