 | Erato, number II |  |
17
IX.
Again the vision changed.
In a low hut,
Filthy, and fitted for the meanest boor,
Paced one with a stern look and knitted brow:
The Conqueror—but how palaced!—It is night:
And a dim taper's flickering light is cast
Upon his ghastly features. O, how bounds,
In its fierce tempest-seat, his aching heart!
How is his spirit humbled! and how swells
His bosom, with emotions terrible!
—Ha! uncommuning one! thy countenance,
Writhing in agony, reveals what tongue
Of thine would never tell. How readst thou now
The writing on the page of Destiny?
All-grasping spirit, does it bid thee on?
How rolls the tide, whose channels thou hast dug?
In a low hut,
Filthy, and fitted for the meanest boor,
Paced one with a stern look and knitted brow:
The Conqueror—but how palaced!—It is night:
And a dim taper's flickering light is cast
Upon his ghastly features. O, how bounds,
In its fierce tempest-seat, his aching heart!
How is his spirit humbled! and how swells
His bosom, with emotions terrible!
—Ha! uncommuning one! thy countenance,
Writhing in agony, reveals what tongue
Of thine would never tell. How readst thou now
The writing on the page of Destiny?
All-grasping spirit, does it bid thee on?
How rolls the tide, whose channels thou hast dug?
Oh, how I pitied him! as back and fore
He paced the filthy hovel; audibly
His bosom throbb'd the while; his neck was bare,
And swol'n; his lips were press'd together hard.
Sudden he now-and-then would seat himself
Upon a rough-hewn bench, and spread a chart;
And then his eye would wander here and there
With frightful speed and earnestness; and then
He'd dash the instrument upon the bench,
And bend his haggard gaze into that gulf
Which swallow'd all his thoughts; his face the while
Changed utterly, disfigured by despair.
Anon he'd sudden start upon his feet:
“What numbers have I, Duroc? Is all lost?
What! beaten by the Russian serf and slave!
No! by the Eagle that has cross'd the Alps,
Waved o'er the mighty pyramids of Nile,
Twice conquer'd Italy, and bent the proud
And haughty knee of Austria's emperor!
No! by the Eagle of Imperial France!
Murat! Davoust!—What come ye hither for?
Do your hearts fail ye? Hence till 'tis my will!”
And then with short and hurried step he'd pace
The floor again—and seize the chart, and press
His palms, with painful force, upon his hot
And aching temples.—And thus pass'd the night.
He paced the filthy hovel; audibly
His bosom throbb'd the while; his neck was bare,
And swol'n; his lips were press'd together hard.
Sudden he now-and-then would seat himself
Upon a rough-hewn bench, and spread a chart;
And then his eye would wander here and there
With frightful speed and earnestness; and then
He'd dash the instrument upon the bench,
And bend his haggard gaze into that gulf
Which swallow'd all his thoughts; his face the while
Changed utterly, disfigured by despair.
Anon he'd sudden start upon his feet:
“What numbers have I, Duroc? Is all lost?
What! beaten by the Russian serf and slave!
No! by the Eagle that has cross'd the Alps,
18
Twice conquer'd Italy, and bent the proud
And haughty knee of Austria's emperor!
No! by the Eagle of Imperial France!
Murat! Davoust!—What come ye hither for?
Do your hearts fail ye? Hence till 'tis my will!”
And then with short and hurried step he'd pace
The floor again—and seize the chart, and press
His palms, with painful force, upon his hot
And aching temples.—And thus pass'd the night.
O, what an agony of soul was his!
Baffled, just in the moment of success;
Thwarted forever, just as he had reach'd
The pinnacle of pow'r, and raised his foot
To plant it firmly where his eye had long
Been fix'd, unblenching. Cold upon his heart,
Hopeless and lacerated, roll'd the tide
Of consciousness—freezing the springs of life—
Bearing away the cherish'd dreams
Of years of restlessness and strife—
Dreams which he long had nurst,
Hugging them to this heart;—
Cold swept that tide,
Marking the bound
That Destiny had fix'd for him—
And whispering,
That hence his march must be a retrograde.
O, how could his proud soul,
Whose eye had ever been upon the stars,
Reading what was not writ for common men,
Bear to retrace the steps by which it climbed
To such a dazzling eminence!
But, lo!
Baffled, just in the moment of success;
Thwarted forever, just as he had reach'd
The pinnacle of pow'r, and raised his foot
To plant it firmly where his eye had long
Been fix'd, unblenching. Cold upon his heart,
Hopeless and lacerated, roll'd the tide
Of consciousness—freezing the springs of life—
Bearing away the cherish'd dreams
Of years of restlessness and strife—
Dreams which he long had nurst,
Hugging them to this heart;—
Cold swept that tide,
Marking the bound
That Destiny had fix'd for him—
And whispering,
That hence his march must be a retrograde.
O, how could his proud soul,
Whose eye had ever been upon the stars,
Reading what was not writ for common men,
Bear to retrace the steps by which it climbed
To such a dazzling eminence!
But, lo!
19
Day breaks upon the mountains; and the hosts
Of the stern Conqueror are rushing down
Upon the watchful foe. They meet—he strikes
Again for victory—but in despair,
And desperate hence; they for their trampled homes,
Nerved by necessity, and dawning hope.
Hard is the contest, man with man engaged.
—'Tis done! and fly the Conqueror's hosts at last!
But HE, a little way retired,
Casts but one look upon his routed ranks;
The next, like lightning, shoots
Down, down, into that dark abyss
By him created. Seated there, engulf'd,
He feels his iron throne
Beneath him shake, and fall;
And the rich bauble, lifted from his brow,
Borne far away beholds!
Then, crownless—throneless—he exclaims,
In that extremity of ill,
“ Lost! lost!” No more;
Man's eye is on him—and his face reveals
Naught of the inward, killing agony.
Of the stern Conqueror are rushing down
Upon the watchful foe. They meet—he strikes
Again for victory—but in despair,
And desperate hence; they for their trampled homes,
Nerved by necessity, and dawning hope.
Hard is the contest, man with man engaged.
—'Tis done! and fly the Conqueror's hosts at last!
But HE, a little way retired,
Casts but one look upon his routed ranks;
The next, like lightning, shoots
Down, down, into that dark abyss
By him created. Seated there, engulf'd,
He feels his iron throne
Beneath him shake, and fall;
And the rich bauble, lifted from his brow,
Borne far away beholds!
Then, crownless—throneless—he exclaims,
In that extremity of ill,
“ Lost! lost!” No more;
Man's eye is on him—and his face reveals
Naught of the inward, killing agony.
| Erato, number II | |