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Title: Napoleon
Author: James Avis Bartley [
More Titles by Bartley]
INTRODUCTION.
If ye will walk amid the ancient wood,
Ye will perceive the lordly oak o'erspread
The slender shrubs, and shield them from the storm.
If ye will look upon a thrifty hive
Of honey-loving bees, ye will remark
A Sovereign rules this small but populous State;
And, if she live, they live, and fill with life
The sunny air around--but if she die,
They quickly die, and then their precious sweet,
Becomes a dainty dish for vilest worms.
If ye will scan the custom of those birds,
That seek the boreal lakes, when spring unfolds--
Soaring far up amid the azure heaven,
Ye will note one who leads them in their flight,
As Chief his army to the embattled fight,
And, oft he shouts far back to them to cheer
Their fainting hearts, and flagging pinions on,
To trace the long, long course to far off lands.
If ye will note the noblest of a flock,
Ye will observe the weaker follow him.
And thus if ye will wisely look on men,
Ye will perceive the wisest lead them on
To every work; for this is nature's law,
And whoso breaks it, breaks it to his hurt.
Fair France once drooped beneath the feeble rule,
A blighting reign, of many a Bourbon fool,
Until Napoleon rose, her natural king,
And crushed the Bourbon, as an abscess thing.
Great Heaven decrees, that Greater still must reign,
Or else the weaker must exist in vain.
Fair France seemed conscious of this grand design,
And hailed Napoleon as a man divine--
Bedecked his path for many a flowery mile,
And claimed her monarch with a beaming smile.
Thus came Napoleon--and, on every hand,
Fair Joys prepared to hover o'er the land.
Then, France! thy glorious age was nigh begun,
When rose upon thee such a glorious sun;
Soon had thy bliss and praises been complete,
And Earth had, falling, worshipped at thy feet.
Beneath this monarch's rule--who loved the best--
Thy meanest subject had been very blest.
And thou had'st antidated our high claim
Of rescuing man from civil slavery's shame.
But, ever, Envy views, with murderous eye,
Those souls who strive to make their station high.
When France was weak, her sister realms were kind--
When France grew strong, in hellish league combined,
They sought to crush her to the sordid earth--
Lest she should grow--and they should pine in dearth.
Go beat the spaniel, if he rouse thine ire,
His servile nature may no more aspire--
But leave the lion in his lordly lair,
Or he thine entrails in his rage will tear.
Go, rob the linnet's unprotected nest,
And rend her offspring, from her little breast;
But leave the Eagle in his eyrie high,
Or thy torn flesh shall hush his eaglet's cry.
Fair France's lion was Napoleon! he
Roamed o'er the land, a monarch proud and free:
And when the Nations, in their pigmy might,
Provoked the Lion to engage in fight,
With gory jaw, he rent their legions strong,
And left them bleaching the wide earth along.
Fair France's Eagle was Napoleon! he
Soared thro' her sky, a monarch proud and free:
And when the boy-like kingdoms thought to bring
The glorious soarer down with bleeding wing,
With swift, fierce swoop, he darted from on high,
And the rent pigmies, shrieked with mighty cry.
Vain were their wishes, all their envy vain,
They could not bring the soarer to the plain;--
Till Fate's fell arrow--surer than the rest--
Winged the far flight, and pierced his glorious breast.
Then fell Napoleon, Eagle of his clime,
By Fate's fell shaft, from yon proud heaven sublime:
And when he fell, France knew no keener woe,
Then the deep piercing of that mortal blow.
The sweet land drooped, and sickened in her grief--
That hope so happy, had given truth so brief--
That Fate's fell shaft her glorious Bird had slain,
No more o'er conquered earth to soar again.
But not at once Napoleon breathes his last--
More woes must come--if now the worst be past.
Napoleon's star, declining on his eye,
Tells France shall yield him not a place to die.
That he must hie him to an alien shore,
And see his France, and blue-eyed boy no more.
The noble Lion must be chained at length,
By Fate's strong force, though not by man's weak strength.
But, harmless now, that meaner things shall prey
On whom they fled from, in his Glory's day.
Oh! when the Chieftain turned to wave adieu
To lovely France, across the waters blue,
The iron man who never quailed in war,
Where Death's conspiring darts flew fast and far--
If peering Envy marked no gushing tear--
Wept, wept to leave the land that was so dear--
And if that woe was mute--it was more deep,
As deepest floods, in silent caverns sleep.
But who are they to whose exalted name,
He turns for friendship in his fall's deep shame?
What flattered enemy may gladly prove,
A fallen Hater yet may know her love?
Britannia! in this latest deep distress,
Napoleon's fate thou now mayest surely bless,
Attest thy greatness to a fallen foe,
And make thy fame sublime o'er all below.
Lo! on yon dreary isle, yon desolate rock,
That quails beneath old ocean's ceaseless shock--
Where flaming suns and sudden ruins combine,
Fo waste and wreck the human form divine--
Where man cut off from all most dear to man,
Makes hopeless exile, happy if he can:--
Then say; Britannia! that thy nobleness
Deigns thy asylum to thy foe's distress?
Say, this the Glory which thou lov'st to boast,
O'er meaner dwellers of each neighboring coast?
Contracted nation! thy contracted home,
A sterile rock round which the billows foam!
How well consorts it with thy dwarfish soul,
That owns no noble feeling's high control.
What glorious record holds the past of thee,
What single page from foul disgrace is free;
Bend, weeping Mary, Scotland's lovely Queen,
With noblest grace, and sad, yet royal mien,
Bend from yon dome of pure, celestial blue,
Say, when a fugitive from sorrow flew,
To Britain's bosom, did she live--or die--
Unheard--uncared for, her last lingering sigh?
On yon bleak isle, behold the Eagle razed,
Who lately soaring, down on Europe gazed.
See now a jackal move about his gate,
Gloat o'er his grief, and mock his fallen State--
Howl round his nobler prisoner every hour,
How brave! to mock him now, deprived of power!
Behold, on yon lone rock the Lion bound,
Who once o'er prostrate Europe looked around;
See now, a Spaniel, yelping at the gate
Of his strong dungeon, mock his altered State.
Methinks, when dying on that lonely isle,
The sad abode of his most sad exile;
If, haply, he had touched the mournful lyre,
It breathed this "Farewell"--ere he did expire.
"I die not on this hideous rock,
As common men would die;
The world will weep above my grave,
Despite a dismal lie.
I well endure the fiercest pangs
That myriads give to one,--
But oh! my lovely France! I grieve,
To leave thee so undone.
My towering aim, to see thy fame
O'er all beneath the sky--
So much--at last--is now achieved,
And, half content, I die.
The woes my foes decree me here,
Ne'er wake my faintest sigh--
But when I view my country's woes,
Not yet I wish to die.
But lo! the Future opens now,
Before my glazing eyes,
And shapes of new and coming things,
Before my vision rise.
I see the Bourbon hurled at last,
From France's tottering throne,
A proud Napoleon reigning there,
France, smiling, points her own!'
Earth yet adores my mighty name--
And, late, laments my doom,
Nor longer wrongs the gliding ghost
That loathes its island tomb.
Long--long through age succeeding age,
Napoleon doth awake
A fearful throb in injured breasts,
To make vile despots quake--
And teach the world this truthful lore,
That Greater still must reign,
Or Weaker must exist on earth
And pass to dust in vain!"
[The end]
James Avis Bartley's poem: Napoleon
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