________________________________________________
Title: Bonaparte At St. Helena
Author: Lydia H. Sigourney [
More Titles by Sigourney]
The drama sinks, the tragic scene is o'er,
And he who rul'd their springs, returns no more;
He, who with mystery cloth'd, pale wonder chain'd,
And all mankind his auditors detain'd,
Whose plot unfolding agoniz'd the world,
Resigns his mask, and from the stage is hurl'd.
When from the wilds of Corsica he broke,
To snatch the sceptre and to bind the yoke,
He rais'd the curtain with his dagger's blade,
And pour'd red carnage o'er the slumbering shade.
His fearful plan, terrific, strange, and new,
Nor Fancy prompted, nor Experience drew,
It sprang inventive from a daring mind
Where dauntless nerve and intellect combined;
Thence bursting wildly, like the lightning's flame,
Gave birth to deeds that language fails to name.
With battle-clouds the shrinking sun he veil'd,
With flashing fires astonish'd Night assail'd,
By ravag'd fields, and streams with carnage red,
Trac'd o'er the earth his desolating tread:
Without a signal to the conflict rush'd
O'er friends enslav'd, foes wounded, allies crush'd;
High from the Alps, amid eternal snow,
Pour'd his fierce legions on the vale below,
With tramp of hurrying steed and armour's clang
War followed war; from conquest, conquest sprang.
In Scythian caves he fought; on Afric's sands,
Chas'd the wild Arab and his roving bands;
Perch'd on the pyramids in dizzy height.
Look'd scornful down on Alexander's might;
O'er Europe's realm like Attila he rush'd,
Snatch'd, rent, divided, subjugated, crush'd;
Here, planted minions in his smile to reign,
There, loaded monarchs with his vassal chain.
Rome's haughty pontiff trembled at the nod
That dar'd to threat the altar of his God;
While Albion's ships, whose bristled lightnings glow,
Were seen like Argus watching for their foe,
And her white cliffs in close array were lin'd
With sleepless soldiers, on their arms reclin'd.
Far distant realms beheld his glories tower,
And France forgot her wrongs, to boast his power;
The pale-brow'd conscript left, without a sigh,
Home, love, and liberty, for him to die.
Even heaven-taught Genius proffer'd venal lays,
The servile arts enlisted in his praise,
And the rich spoils of old Italia's shore
As trophies proud, his pirate legions bore.
In that gay city where his lofty throne
On run rear'd, in sudden brilliance shone,
The Old World met the New, and sons of fame
Who fill'd with awe, in long procession came,
Rais'd the imploring eye, to ask sublime
A milder sentence on the tyrant's crime.
But how can Europe grant their warm appeal,
Reft of her sons, and mangled by his steel?
Hath she a couch so dark, a cell so deep,
That burning Moscow's memory there may sleep?
What can the scenes of purple Jaffa blot?
And when shall Lodi's slaughter be forgot?
Who from a race unborn shall hide the view
Of Jena, Austerlitz, and Waterloo?
Earth, clad in sable, never can forego
The deep-grav'd trace, nor man forget the woe.
Yet, let him live, if life can yet be borne,
Disrob'd of glory, and depress'd with scorn;
Yes, let him live, if he to life can bend,
Without a flatterer, and without a friend;
If from the hand he hated, he can bear
To take the gift, his stain'd existence spare.
But who from yon lone islet shall exclude
The fearful step of Conscience, foul with blood?
What diamond shield repel the impetuous force
Or break the shafts of pitiless remorse?
Oh! in his sea-girt cell of guilt and fear,
Stretch the red map that marks his dire career,
Light the funereal torch, in terror spread
His reeking hecatombs of slaughter'd dead,
And if to hearts like his, Contrition comes,
There let him seek her 'mid impending glooms;
There let him live, and to mankind display
The mighty miseries of Ambition's sway;
There let him sink, to teach them by his fate,
The dread requital of the falsely great.
Great, in the stores of an ambitious mind;
Great, in the deeds that desolate mankind;
Great, like the pestilence in mystic shroud
That darts its arrow from the midnight cloud;
Great, like the whirlwind in its wrecking path,
To sow in evil, and to reap in wrath.
[The end]
Lydia H. Sigourney's poem: Bonaparte At St. Helena
________________________________________________
GO TO TOP OF SCREEN
