The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly :: :: University of Virginia Library

The crowd have scatter'd far,—a distant room
Has check'd their laughter; swift and hush'd they come.
What holds the wonderers now? A canopy,
Topp'd with a mouldering plume, a golden bee
Half from its curtain's faded crimson torn,
A cypher deep defaced, a wreath forlorn,—
They gaze but on a chair.—Yet lo! the throne
Of conquest, crime, despair—Napoleon!
This was Earth's heart! when here the sceptre strook,
Through all her realms the keen vibration shook.
The murmur here—swell'd forth an oracle,
And nations heard it in its wrath, and fell.

Here stamp'd the foot,—and bursting up like flame,
The crown-givers, the eagle legions came.
There was a darkness on it; woe to eye
That dared to pierce the evil sanctuary!
Prowess and pomp were there; the gloomy spear
Waved in incessant circuit; prince and peer
Bowing their haughty foreheads helm'd and crown'd,
Hung like a fiery cloud the throne around.
It had a mightier guard,—that cloud within,
Sate Guilt that chill'd the heart, substantial Sin;
And man had bled, and diadems been riven,
Till terror saw it delegate of heaven.
Wisdom was air, strength ashes, valour wan,
Before the form, the man, if that were man!

Is there not one—a being from his height
Of glory fall'n, a shape of burning might,
A ruin'd grandeur, angel beauty marr'd,
On his trench'd brow the early crown unstarr'd;
Condemn'd through earth on restless wing to range,
His joy, his agony, revenge, revenge:

And has he not the passing power to dart,
Supernal vigour through the traitor's heart;
Seduce the weak before him, bend the high,
Till the world owns its evil Deity?

The Tyrant's peace was fearful. Fatal guile
Entomb'd the slaves who trusted to his smile.
But when he scorn'd the mask, and shouted war,
And here unroll'd the banner of the star;
Who slumber'd then?—what land but fix'd its eye
For omens on the eagle's augury?
The ancient empires shook. The mighty North
Sent her reluctant suppliants hurrying forth;
The South gave up her gold. The Ottoman
Cower'd to a haughtier sultan's dark divan.
And he, the Master, sate beneath that plume,
And kings stood here, nay trembling, in this room;
His vassals,—wither'd in his evil blaze;
And now—the meanest hind may scoff and gaze!

The final vengeance came! but sent by whom?
Was it in man to burst this den, this tomb!

Lives there the human heart that dared to hope
To stand in scorn beneath this charnel cope?
'Twas as if Heav'n would bare to human eyes
Its empire o'er its own fierce agencies.
As if the tempest-cloud had oped its gorge,
To shew the secrets of the thunder's forge.
As if some final shock had drunk the wave
That rolls in gloom o'er ocean's central cave;
Stripping to man its bosom, boundless vale
Of wreck and buried wealth, and corpses pale;
The world of storms and sepulchres subdued;
All one wild waste—death, silence, solitude!

Stranger and enemy are round that chair;
But are no sterner shapes of friendship there?
No haughty frowns, bold tauntings, bitter sighs,
No pangs our nature knows not, till it dies?
Gaze ye not here, who, freezing in your gore,
Made the drear halt on Berezyna's shore;
And heard the Tartar's shout, and rushing wave,
Mark, through the dusk, the limits of your grave,

And felt the polar night your gashes sear,
And died in torture, but to fix him here?
And ye! the plumed and trampling chivalry,
Who rode on Leipsic's plain of death to die;
And met the German sword, and fiery shower,
To save him for another, fiercer hour!
It came;—ye last, consummate sacrifice!
Wing ye not here in deeper agonies?
Ye, round whose hearts still hangs the clotted blood,
Whose flesh is still the Flemish raven's food;
Rolls not upon the wind your countless train,
With cloudier visages of shame and pain?
Yet in the field ye fell. Ne'er battle soil
Such booty bore, where corpses were the spoil;
And he, for whom ye bled, on whom your eye
Turn'd in its dimness, dared do all but die!
Ye massacred! behold the prize ye won;
The throne, and him who sat upon that throne.

The heavens were sick of crime,—the endless strife
Where black ambition flung its stake of life.

The trial came.—On rush'd, with shout and ban,
The rebel hosts, their Idol in the van;
Strength of their heart, and wonder of their eye;
Illusive glory, for his hour was nigh.
Their rites of blood arose. In vain the name
Of their dark Baal echoed. Evening came.—
Then the true thunders roll'd. Their livid gaze
Saw the horizon one advancing blaze;
They saw it smite their Idol on his throne;
And he was smote,—pomp, art, illusion, gone.
Then died his worshippers. The jealous steel
Raged through their quivering ranks with faithful zeal
The sacrifice was done! and on its wing
The earth sent up the shout of thanksgiving.

END OF THE FIRST PART.

I Kings, chap. 18.