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Home  »  The World’s Best Poetry  »  Napoleon

Bliss Carman, et al., eds. The World’s Best Poetry. 1904.

Descriptive Poems: I. Personal: Rulers; Statesmen; Warriors

Napoleon

Lord Byron (1788–1824)

From “Childe Harold,” Canto III.

THERE sunk the greatest, nor the worst of men,

Whose spirit antithetically mixed

One moment of the mightiest, and again

On little objects with like firmness fixed,

Extreme in all things! hadst thou been betwixt,

Thy throne had still been thine, or never been;

For daring made thy rise as fall: thou seek’st

Even now to reassume the imperial mien,

And shake again the world, the Thunderer of the scene!

Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou!

She trembles at thee still, and thy wild name

Was ne’er more bruited in men’s minds than now

That thou art nothing, save the jest of Fame,

Who wooed thee once, thy vassal, and became

The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert

A god unto thyself: nor less the same

To the astounded kingdoms all inert,

Who deemed thee for a time whate’er thou didst assert.

O more or less than man—in high or low,

Battling with nations, flying from the field;

Now making monarchs’ necks thy footstool, now

More than thy meanest soldier taught to yield:

An empire thou couldst crush, command, rebuild,

But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor,

However deeply in men’s spirits skilled,

Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of war,

Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the loftiest star.

Yet well thy soul hath brooked the turning tide

With that untaught innate philosophy,

Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride,

Is gall and wormwood to an enemy.

When the whole host of hatred stood hard by,

To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou hast smiled

With a sedate and all-enduring eye,—

When Fortune fled her spoiled and favorite child,

He stood unbowed beneath the ills upon him piled.

Sager than in thy fortunes; for in them

Ambition steeled thee on too far to show

That just habitual scorn which could contemn

Men and their thoughts; ’t was wise to feel, not so

To wear it ever on thy lip and brow,

And spurn the instruments thou wert to use

Till they were turned unto thine overthrow;

’T is but a worthless world to win or lose;

So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who choose.

If, like a tower upon a headlong rock,

Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone,

Such scorn of man had helped to brave the shock;

But men’s thoughts were the steps which paved thy throne,

Their admiration thy best weapon shone;

The part of Philip’s son was thine, not then

(Unless aside thy purple had been thrown)

Like stern Diogenes to mock at men;

For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a den.

But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell,

And there hath been thy bane; there is a fire

And motion of the soul which will not dwell

In its own narrow being, but aspire

Beyond the fitting medium of desire;

And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore,

Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire

Of aught but rest; a fever at the core,

Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore.

This makes the madmen who have made men mad

By their contagion! Conquerors and Kings,

Founders of sects and systems, to whom add

Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet things

Which stir too strongly the soul’s secret springs,

And are themselves the fools to those they fool;

Envied, yet how unenviable! what stings

Are theirs! One breast laid open were a school

Which would unteach mankind the lust to shine or rule.

Their breath is agitation, and their life

A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last,

And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife,

That should their days, surviving perils past,

Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast

With sorrow and supineness, and so die;

Even as a flame, unfed, which runs to waste

With its own flickering, or a sword laid by,

Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously.

He who ascends to mountain-tops shall find

The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow;

He who surpasses or subdues mankind

Must look down on the hate of those below.

Though high above the sun of glory glow,

And far beneath the earth and ocean spread,

Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow

Contending tempests on his naked head,

And thus reward the toils which to those summits led.