University of Virginia Library

THE TOMB OF NAPOLEON.

We perceive, by the papers, that a first project of the new French Dynasty, and that, by which it proposes, without doubt, to render itself popular with the many-headed monster, is the removal of the bones of Napoleon from the solitary isle where he suffered, to the enlivening territory over which he reigned. Nor is there, altogether, a lack of fitness and sublimity in this design. It is intended to appropriate, as a fitting mausolem for this sacred deposite, the column in the Place Vendome; a beautiful monument, framed from the cannon, taken by Napoleon at the battle of Austerlitz. A project like this, is particularly calculated to take captive the imaginations, and win the affections of the ardent people to whom it is proposed; and we should not wonder to see the entire

nation, with Philippe, the new monarch, at their head, engaged in a friendly crusade, with the British Government, for the attainment of this novel object. England will, no doubt, in such an event, readily give up her lien upon the ashes of the mighty Corsican, nor render it necessary, for those concerned in this pilgrimage, to assume a less peaceable or less sacred character. We think it not unlikely, indeed, that the country in possession, will be quite willing to forego all claim to the body of Napoleon, now; however unwilling to do so, it may have been, on any former occasion.

It will be seen from the little poem which follows, that we by no means approve of the design in view. We cannot, for ourselves, perceive the wonderful honour that this transfer will do to the immortal subject of regard and consideration; nor can we be made, exactly to perceive, in how much the column in the Place Vendome, will prove more becoming as a monument for Napoleon, than the scene of his trials, death and final repose. In a moral point of view, the reasons we should urge against his removal, must prove full and conclusive. The name of Napoleon is perhaps more perfectly and intimately associated with that of St. Helena, than with any single spot upon the surface of the globe. It appears to his life, precisely in the same relation as the fifth act or catastrophe to the Tragedy which it concludes. The whole life is defective, without it. Here the whole history is comprised and added up, and the sum total put down:—

Finis Coronat Opus! The nations look to it first; and as in the order of things, commonly, the previous life, achievements, successes and defeats, lead us only the more conclusively to the end—so we refer to St. Helena as to the most necessary chapter in the history of Napoleon. Again: Does not the necessity which now imposes the remains of her victim upon her, lead us more directly, to the shame of England in this transaction? Is she not now doomed to carry the proof of her dishonor about her? Is not the possession of the bones of the captive, evidence of his captivity; and is not this the disgrace that England would be very willing, forever, to remove? But we anticipate the argument of the Poem.

Considered upon a principle of the natural sublime, where can we find a tomb more imposing—more suited to the individual by whom it is occupied, or one better calculated to inspire awe and veneration in the mind of the spectator, than the “ocean isle”—removed as it is from the crowded mart—silent—rocky—solitary—washed by opposing waters, chafed by the unfettered winds that sweep over it from every quarter—with the natural sublimity of which, the puerilities of society cannot conflict, nor the little characteristics of busy life, come in collision? Who will deny that such a tomb is more in unison with the life of the mighty exile—his achievements, sufferings and death, than any mere fabric, the design and the erection of man, situated in a crowded city, and made so familiar and common to the vulgar

concerns of life, that in a short time, in spite of all the associations connected with its mighty tenant, even the man of taste, along with the artisan, fails to perceive, and cannot enjoy it.

The majesty of Freedom lives again,
In Europe—and the spirit is abroad,
Triumphant over Gallia's fair domain,
Subtle and strong, and gathering to a God—
Gaul stands erect, and, for reward too late,
She fain would honor him, who baffled fate,
And shrine the bones of one too long outlawed—
Would give a monument to him, whose fame
Won for himself, and gave to France, his name!
His bones—whose bones? the man who stood
When realms were blazing round,
And all his country's veins run blood,
O'er Moscow's frozen ground—
Who bade his locust armies haste,
O'er Egypt's wild and pathless waste,
Nor deemed the Alps a bound—
Would you for such as him command,
A tomb built up by human hand!
This were a fall, indeed, for him,
Who, in his hour of might,
Beheld his day star never dim,
'Till nature join'd the fight!
Nor, 'till the Northern God had striven,
Leagued with the mightier arm of heav'n,
Against his warrior flight—
Bade his fierce Eagles turn and fly,
From blazing realm and freezing sky.
For him we make the monument
That never can decay;
Which, when the wrath of Time is spent,
May laugh to scorn, his sway.
The Monarch, deem'd legitimate,
May thank his stars, and honor fate,
For shrines of crumbling clay—
But, in thy destiny, we see,
That Nature builds thy tomb for thee.
What other shrine could man have made,
Fit for thy mighty bones;
Thou, whose fierce will and sceptre sway'd,
Thy many sword-bought thrones:
How should he, to the world, convey,
The story of each bloody fray—
How, with his up-piled stones,
That crumble ere they well arise,
Attest thy thousand victories!
But here, as in the battle's shock,
When Nations join in fight,
Firmly upon this sea girt rock,
That mocks old Ocean's might—
Thou standest now, as thou hast stood,
Upon the field, that run with blood,
Nor had a thought of flight;
Thy tomb is meet unto thy life,
Proud dweller in a world of strife.
What is a pillar'd spire to thee,
Whose glory, like the sun,
The world, the living world must see,
And empires cannot shun;
No single spot, whate'er its name,
Can add one atom to thy fame—
Thou art that single one,
Whose majesty of self must make,
Each spot a trophy for thy sake.
And far more fit unto thy pride,
That still thy form should sleep
Within the tomb were thou wast tried,
With torture stern and deep:
Of old, the martyr bore the wood,
On which he poured his choicest blood;
And fitter thou should'st keep,
Upon that isle of settled gloom,
Which saw thee suffer, still thy tomb.
More than triumphal arch can be,
That isle is now thy own—
And Nations oftener look to thee,
Than on th' imperial throne—
It is not now Saint Helen's strand,
Nor Gaoler England's subject land,
Her tribute claim is gone,
Since there thy sepulchre she reared,
To bury him, the Nations fear'd.
Sleep in thy grave of triumph high,
Thy fame its ruling God—
It is not, to the Pilgrim's eye,
A desolate abode!
The sun that cheers thy rock-girt grave,
Beholds that wild and gloomy wave,
By earth's way-farers trod—
From Nations, far remote, they steer,
To honor him who slumbers there.
They need no tablet to denote
Thy triumph and thy pride;
They ask: “Is this the lonely spot,
Where great Napoleon died!”
A mottoed or a trophied bust,
Were but a mockery of thy dust—
When Albion these denied,
A greater triumph than her will,
She gave thy fame, in trembling still.
Her shame becomes thy trophy, then,
And when thy deeds shall be
A doubtful record among men,
Her fears shall honor thee!
The captive in his prison hall,
The Nations say, could still appal,
The Mistress of the Sea—
Could still, like Eblis thrown and bound,
Rock the whole Earth's foundations round.
And not like other humbler foes,
Did each choice ally dare;
Herded, the monarchs met thy blows,
Nor then conceal'd their fear.
They trembled, though o'erthrown, to chain,
Their captive in their own domain—
But in the ocean drear,
They call'd upon the rocks and sea,
To yield a prison house for thee!
There take thy rest—mausoleum meet,
Which gathering worlds may see—
A column, in a princely street,
Could add no pride to thee—
For genius, less supreme than thine,
The brass of Austerlitz might shine,
And fit memorial be;
For him, whose life, was one long chain
Of glorious triumphs, it were vain.