Lord Byron (1788–1824). Poetry of Byron. 1881.
I. Personal, Lyric, and ElegiacOde to Napoleon Buonaparte
’T
And arm’d with Kings to strive—
And now thou art a nameless thing:
So abject—yet alive!
Is this the man of thousand thrones,
Who strew’d our earth with hostile bones,
And can he thus survive?—
Since he, miscall’d the Morning Star,
Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far.
Who bow’d so low the knee? By gazing on thyself grown blind, Thou taught’st the rest to see. With might unquestion’d,—power to save,— Thine only gift hath been the grave To those that worshipp’d thee; Nor till thy fall could mortals guess Ambition’s less than littleness! To after-warriors more Than high Philosophy can preach, And vainly preach’d before. That spell upon the minds of men Breaks never to unite again, That led them to adore Those Pagod things of sabre sway, With fronts of brass, and feet of clay. The rapture of the strife— The earthquake voice of Victory, To thee the breath of life; The sword, the sceptre, and that sway Which man seem’d made but to obey, Wherewith renown was rife— All quell’d!—Dark Spirit! what must be The madness of thy memory! The Victor overthrown! The Arbiter of others’ fate A Suppliant for his own! Is it some yet imperial hope That with such change can calmly cope? Or dread of death alone? To die a prince—or live a slave— Thy choice is most ignobly brave! Dream’d not of the rebound; Chain’d by the trunk he vainly broke— Alone—how look’d he round? Thou in the sternness of thy strength An equal deed hast done at length, And darker fate hast found; He fell, the forest prowlers’ prey; But thou must eat thy heart away! Was slaked with blood of Rome, Threw down the dagger—dared depart, In savage grandeur, home.— He dared depart in utter scorn Of men that such a yoke had borne, Yet left him such a doom! His only glory was that hour Of self-upheld abandon’d power. Had lost its quickening spell, Cast crowns for rosaries away, An empire for a cell; A strict accountant of his beads, A subtle disputant on creeds, His dotage trifled well: Yet better had he neither known A bigot’s shrine, nor despot’s throne. The thunderbolt is wrung— Too late thou leav’st the high command To which thy weakness clung; All Evil Spirit as thou art, It is enough to grieve the heart To see thine own unstrung; To think that God’s fair world hath been The footstool of a thing so mean; Who thus can hoard his own! And Monarchs bow’d the trembling limb, And thank’d him for a throne! Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear, When thus thy mightiest foes their fear In humblest guise have shown. Oh! ne’er may tyrant leave behind A brighter name to lure mankind! Nor written thus in vain— Thy triumphs tell of fame no more, Or deepen every stain: If thou hadst died as honour dies, Some new Napoleon might arise, To shame the world again— But who would soar the solar height, To set in such a starless night? Is vile as vulgar clay; Thy scales, Mortality! are just To all that pass away: But yet methought the living great Some higher sparks should animate, To dazzle and dismay; Nor deem’d Contempt could thus make mirth Of these, the Conquerors of the earth. Thy still imperial bride; How bears her breast the torturing hour? Still clings she to thy side? Must she too bend, must she too share Thy late repentance, long despair, Thou throneless Homicide? If still she loves thee, hoard that gem, ’Tis worth thy vanish’d diadem! And gaze upon the sea; That element may meet thy smile— It ne’er was ruled by thee! Or trace with thine all idle hand In loitering mood upon the sand That Earth is now as free! That Corinth’s pedagogue hath now Transferr’d his by-word to thy brow. What thoughts will there be thine, While brooding in thy prison’d rage? But one—“The world was mine!” Unless, like he of Babylon, All sense is with thy sceptre gone, Life will not long confine That spirit pour’d so widely forth— So long obey’d—so little worth! Wilt thou withstand the shock? And share with him, the unforgiven, His vulture and his rock! Foredoom’d by God—by man accurst, And that last act, though not thy worst, The very Fiend’s arch mock; He in his fall preserved his pride, And, if a mortal, had as proudly died! While earth was Gaul’s—Gaul thine— When that immeasurable power Unsated to resign Had been an act of purer fame Than gathers round Marengo’s name, And gilded thy decline Through the long twilight of all time, Despite some passing clouds of crime. And don the purple vest,— As if that foolish robe could wring Remembrance from thy breast. Where is that faded garment? where The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear, The star—the string—the crest? Vain froward child of empire! say, Are all thy playthings snatch’d away? When gazing on the Great; Where neither guilty glory glows, Nor despicable state? Yes—one—the first—the last—the best— The Cincinnatus of the West, Whom envy dared not hate, Bequeath’d the name of Washington, To make man blush there was but one!