University of Virginia Library

Through all the long, the happy marches
Across Provence, now bright with spring,
He sees the gay triumphal arches,
He hears once more the joy-bells ring.
And then one day, through beat of drums,
He hears the cry, “The Emperor comes,”
“The Emperor comes”—on every side
They pass the word with looks of pride.
Each soldier feels his courage rise,
Fresh pleasure sparkles in his eyes,
And while he stands the more upright,
Sees his accoutrements are bright,
And hopes his bayonet, sword, or lance
Will seem to that all-piercing glance
As sword or bayonet ought to look.
For who could bear the sharp rebuke
Or face his comrades' words or jeers,
Or worse, his comrades' covert sneers,
At one the Emperor deigned to chide?

An hour has gone; the corps espied
The staff approaching, near a wood.
It stood to arms. Kind Nature's mood
Was peaceful: there the stock-dove coo'd;
The dreamer sees one purple flower,
Which decked the spot that sunny hour.
“The Emperor is an altered man
Since Leipsic,” says a veteran.
And yet the great Napoleon seems
The ideal of a soldier's dreams,
As now he passes on his course,
Erect upon his snow-white horse
Amid his marshals. Soult and Ney,
Heroes of many a well-fought day,
Ride near him now, in gayest trim.
They jest, and sometimes speak with him—
Yet never seem to lose the sense—
Of that strange man's strange influence—
Of that magnetic, cruel power
By which Napoleon, hour by hour,
Until his fiery race was run,
Remorselessly swayed every one.
Firm are his lips, stern are his eyes—
Hard eyes, where naught of gladness lies;
Yes signs there are of wasting life,
Wasting through care and lust of strife,
That drooping lip, that haggard cheek,
Of pain, of ebbing force, they speak.
But none, save veterans here and there,
Perceive his chill, his altered air;
The troops, o'erjoyed to see his face,
See in his glance a sign of grace:
His presence cures their every ill,
And “Vive l'Empereur!” their shout is still.