Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs By Walter Thornbury. Illustrated by J. Whistler, F. Walker, John Tenniel, J. D. Watson, W. Small, F. Sandys, G. J. Pinwell, T. Morten, M. J. Lawless, and many others |
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Napoleon Ballads.
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| II. |
| III. |
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 | Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs |  |
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Napoleon Ballads.
I. THE NIGHT REVIEW BEFORE AUSTERLITZ.
December dawn—through frosty fogs
The sun strove hard to shine,
A rolling of the muster drums
Was heard along the line;
In simple grey the Corporal
Rode with his head bent down,
More like a savan than the man
Who won an Emperor's crown.
The sun strove hard to shine,
A rolling of the muster drums
Was heard along the line;
In simple grey the Corporal
Rode with his head bent down,
More like a savan than the man
Who won an Emperor's crown.
He looked at Soult, and raised his hand,
And stood godlike upright,
Then all at once a silence fell
As deep and hushed as night.
Ten thousand faces turned at once—
Like flowers unto the sun—
Each gunner, with his lighted match,
Stood silent by his gun.
And stood godlike upright,
Then all at once a silence fell
As deep and hushed as night.
Ten thousand faces turned at once—
Like flowers unto the sun—
Each gunner, with his lighted match,
Stood silent by his gun.
“One year to-day, my sons, you placed
The crown upon my head.”
(We saw his coal-black eye was fired,
His yellow cheek grew red.)
“The Tartars yonder want to steal
That iron crown you gave,
And will you let them?” Tête de Dieu!
The shout the soldiers gave!
The crown upon my head.”
(We saw his coal-black eye was fired,
His yellow cheek grew red.)
“The Tartars yonder want to steal
That iron crown you gave,
And will you let them?” Tête de Dieu!
The shout the soldiers gave!
Six hundred cannon bellowed “No!”
The eagles waved—and then
There came the earthquake clamouring
Of a hundred thousand men.
In waves of sound the grenadiers
Cried “Vive l'Empereur!” at once,
And fires broke out along the line,
Like Lapland's midnight suns.
The eagles waved—and then
There came the earthquake clamouring
Of a hundred thousand men.
In waves of sound the grenadiers
Cried “Vive l'Empereur!” at once,
And fires broke out along the line,
Like Lapland's midnight suns.
“Soldiers, a thunderbolt must fall
Upon the Tartar's head,
Your Emperor will be this day
Victorious or dead.
My children, where the eagle flies
Is (who dare doubt it?) France;
To-day we'll light the bivouac fire
With Russia's broken lance.”
Upon the Tartar's head,
Your Emperor will be this day
Victorious or dead.
My children, where the eagle flies
Is (who dare doubt it?) France;
To-day we'll light the bivouac fire
With Russia's broken lance.”
A grizzled giant, old Daru,
Looked round him with a frown—
He wore upon his broad bull chest
The order of the “Crown.”
“To-morrow, sire, those Russian flags
In sheaves we hope to bring,
And lay them at our Emperor's feet,
A bouquet for a king.”
Looked round him with a frown—
He wore upon his broad bull chest
The order of the “Crown.”
“To-morrow, sire, those Russian flags
In sheaves we hope to bring,
And lay them at our Emperor's feet,
A bouquet for a king.”
II. THE BELLS OF FONTAINEBLEAU.
Napoleon in the grey surtout
That kings had learned to dread,
With close-clenched hands behind his back
And heavy bended head,
Climbed slowly (lost in battle plans)
A hill near Fontainebleau,
One, three, two, four, the village chimes
Came to him from below.
That kings had learned to dread,
With close-clenched hands behind his back
And heavy bended head,
Climbed slowly (lost in battle plans)
A hill near Fontainebleau,
One, three, two, four, the village chimes
Came to him from below.
The marshals, glittering with gold,
Paced laughingly along,
Nor hushed the scandal and the jest,
Or scrap of opera song;
The Emperor stood silent there,
A monarch turned to stone,
Nor smiled, nor moved—where great men stand
The spot becomes a throne.
Paced laughingly along,
Nor hushed the scandal and the jest,
Or scrap of opera song;
The Emperor stood silent there,
A monarch turned to stone,
Nor smiled, nor moved—where great men stand
The spot becomes a throne.
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Below, the reapers, singing, toiled
With sickles (not with swords),
Or down in clusters round the sheaves
Lay revelling like lords;
The soldiers pointed to the slopes
That bound the golden plain,
And almost wished that France were lost,
To win it o'er again.
With sickles (not with swords),
Or down in clusters round the sheaves
Lay revelling like lords;
The soldiers pointed to the slopes
That bound the golden plain,
And almost wished that France were lost,
To win it o'er again.
The grey man stood, one foot outstretched,
As if upon a foe,
He cared not for the happy sight,
The plenty spread below,
Although the bells shook music down
From yonder village tower—
And hark! the royal voice of Time
Exulting in his power.
As if upon a foe,
He cared not for the happy sight,
The plenty spread below,
Although the bells shook music down
From yonder village tower—
And hark! the royal voice of Time
Exulting in his power.
At last he spoke, and slowly turned
(A moisture in his eyes),—
Massena gave a shrug that showed
A cynical surprise:
“Long years ago, at Malmaison,
When all unknown of men,
I heard just such a laughing peal,
And I was happy then.”
(A moisture in his eyes),—
Massena gave a shrug that showed
A cynical surprise:
“Long years ago, at Malmaison,
When all unknown of men,
I heard just such a laughing peal,
And I was happy then.”
He turned upon his heel, and then
Sat down upon the hill,
Tracing upon the level sand
With sword-sheath (oh, that will!)
The star redoubt, the diamond fort,
The battle lines again:—
A month from that he won the day
Upon Marengo's plain.
Sat down upon the hill,
Tracing upon the level sand
With sword-sheath (oh, that will!)
The star redoubt, the diamond fort,
The battle lines again:—
A month from that he won the day
Upon Marengo's plain.
III. THE PARTING WITH THE EAGLES, 1814.
(1824—THE SOLDIER'S WIFE TO HER BOY, THE DRUMMER.)
An April morning! Fontainebleau
Stands up and braves the sun;
The dew still glitters on the turf
Where rabbits race and run;
No hunting clamour breaks the hush,
No hound, or echoing hoof,
But sprinkling gold falls on the moat
And slants athwart the roof.
Stands up and braves the sun;
The dew still glitters on the turf
Where rabbits race and run;
No hunting clamour breaks the hush,
No hound, or echoing hoof,
But sprinkling gold falls on the moat
And slants athwart the roof.
A lonely day, and Fontainebleau
Broods o'er its memories—
So old, and yet the April bloom
Is white upon the trees.
Ten Easters since! a different scene
Was lit by yonder sun,
When through those rosy almond boughs
Roared the meridian gun!
Broods o'er its memories—
So old, and yet the April bloom
Is white upon the trees.
Ten Easters since! a different scene
Was lit by yonder sun,
When through those rosy almond boughs
Roared the meridian gun!
That palace with its thousand eyes
Indeed might look aghast,
As the last scene that closed the play
Before its windows passed.
“What do they call that marble horse,
Just like ours in Sedan—
A horse for Cæsar—lion-maned?”—
“That is the Cheval Blanc.”
Indeed might look aghast,
As the last scene that closed the play
Before its windows passed.
“What do they call that marble horse,
Just like ours in Sedan—
A horse for Cæsar—lion-maned?”—
“That is the Cheval Blanc.”
This is the horse-shoe staircase where
The Emperor came down,
No bloody sceptre in his hand,
Nor lightning-woven crown,
But like a simple soldier clad,
In his plain grey surtout,
And underneath the epaulettes
The red that faced the blue.
The Emperor came down,
No bloody sceptre in his hand,
Nor lightning-woven crown,
But like a simple soldier clad,
In his plain grey surtout,
And underneath the epaulettes
The red that faced the blue.
That noble tree that sheltered us
With its extended branch,
Was smit by steel and split by fire—
Revanche, mon Dieu, revanche!
The cruel frosts of Winter came
And stripped the dying trunk;
The leaves were crowns, the boughs were kings—
Brave blood the tree had drunk.
With its extended branch,
Was smit by steel and split by fire—
Revanche, mon Dieu, revanche!
The cruel frosts of Winter came
And stripped the dying trunk;
The leaves were crowns, the boughs were kings—
Brave blood the tree had drunk.
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The traitor dukes and subject kings
Fell off like Autumn leaves,
As stripped as when the April time
Laughs as old Winter grieves.
Like blossoms from that wind-scourged thorn
The traitors dropped from him—
No wonder that his head was bent
And that his eye was dim.
Fell off like Autumn leaves,
As stripped as when the April time
Laughs as old Winter grieves.
Like blossoms from that wind-scourged thorn
The traitors dropped from him—
No wonder that his head was bent
And that his eye was dim.
Shall I forget that April noon?
The carriages in line,
Like funeral hearses slowly came
Through slanting sunbeams' shine.
Who did they wait for—Balliard,
Bussy, or Montesquiou,
La Place, Jouanne, or Athalin,
Vansowich or Flahaut?
The carriages in line,
Like funeral hearses slowly came
Through slanting sunbeams' shine.
Who did they wait for—Balliard,
Bussy, or Montesquiou,
La Place, Jouanne, or Athalin,
Vansowich or Flahaut?
The rest are gone, with sneer or jest,
Regret, or fierce rebuke,—
Even the valet lured away
Last night the Mameluke.
When Ney was false, who could expect
A scullion to be true?
Yet still around the close-shut gate
I saw a faithful few.
Regret, or fierce rebuke,—
Even the valet lured away
Last night the Mameluke.
When Ney was false, who could expect
A scullion to be true?
Yet still around the close-shut gate
I saw a faithful few.
Yes, still the old Imperial Guard
Were under arms in line—
Old friends of Austerlitz—the same
In snow, or rain, or shine.
Immovable, a wall of steel,
You might have thought them dead,
But for the sullen smouldering fire
That in their eyes shone red.
Were under arms in line—
Old friends of Austerlitz—the same
In snow, or rain, or shine.
Immovable, a wall of steel,
You might have thought them dead,
But for the sullen smouldering fire
That in their eyes shone red.
One strikes, and through the opening door
Napoleon appears:
The ruffle of the drum was heard,
Like thunder came the cheers;
The crimson flags blew in and out,
The tremble of the steel
Was visible, most visible!—
What! Frenchmen and not feel?
Napoleon appears:
The ruffle of the drum was heard,
Like thunder came the cheers;
The crimson flags blew in and out,
The tremble of the steel
Was visible, most visible!—
What! Frenchmen and not feel?
Their caps upon the bayonets shook
As when a conqueror comes
To greet his soldiers—faster spread
The rolling of the drums.
And then a death-like hush so deep—
You heard the thoughtless bird
Upon the rosy almond bloom
A sprinkling snow had furred.
As when a conqueror comes
To greet his soldiers—faster spread
The rolling of the drums.
And then a death-like hush so deep—
You heard the thoughtless bird
Upon the rosy almond bloom
A sprinkling snow had furred.
You heard his measured steps, as quick
He came down yonder stairs,
His hand extended for those hands
Held out to him in pairs.—
He was amongst them, ringed with steel,
Erect and stern as when
The foes he sought to crush at last
Were gathered in his ken.
He came down yonder stairs,
His hand extended for those hands
Held out to him in pairs.—
He was amongst them, ringed with steel,
Erect and stern as when
The foes he sought to crush at last
Were gathered in his ken.
“Farewell, my children; bring the flag
For me to kiss and bless;
The dying father thinks of thee
In joy or in distress.
For twenty years this eagle led
Our tramplers on kings,
We who lit fires with sceptre-staffs,
And counted crowns base things,
For me to kiss and bless;
The dying father thinks of thee
In joy or in distress.
For twenty years this eagle led
Our tramplers on kings,
We who lit fires with sceptre-staffs,
And counted crowns base things,
“We now must part. With men like you
I could have fought for years;
But then our country had been drenched
With blood and mothers' tears.—
I leave you, but ye still will serve
France, that we so much love:
God guard her from the ravening hawk,
As angels guard the dove.
I could have fought for years;
But then our country had been drenched
With blood and mothers' tears.—
I leave you, but ye still will serve
France, that we so much love:
God guard her from the ravening hawk,
As angels guard the dove.
“Faithful and brave, a long farewell—
'T is very hard to part;
Would I could press my children all
Unto their father's heart.”
They brought the flag that Bertrand bore,
He clasped it to his arms;
Not one but wept, the fiercest there—
The drum beat the alarms.
'T is very hard to part;
Would I could press my children all
Unto their father's heart.”
They brought the flag that Bertrand bore,
He clasped it to his arms;
Not one but wept, the fiercest there—
The drum beat the alarms.
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The bayonets shook, the stormy shout
Burst like a thunder-clap,
How lightning-quick the fiery beat
Of the fierce drummer's tap!—
A dash of hoofs—the carriage broke
Impetuous through the crowd,
And after it the rolling dust
Rose in a blinding cloud.
Burst like a thunder-clap,
How lightning-quick the fiery beat
Of the fierce drummer's tap!—
A dash of hoofs—the carriage broke
Impetuous through the crowd,
And after it the rolling dust
Rose in a blinding cloud.
IV. THE SCHOOLBOY KING.
A SCENE AT BRIENNE.
Le Pere Petrault shut Virgil up
Just as the clock struck ten:
“This little Bonaparte,” he said,
“Is one of Plutarch's men.
To see him with his massive head,
Gripped mouth, and swelling brow,
Wrestle with Euclid—there he sat
Not half an hour from now.”
Just as the clock struck ten:
“This little Bonaparte,” he said,
“Is one of Plutarch's men.
To see him with his massive head,
Gripped mouth, and swelling brow,
Wrestle with Euclid—there he sat
Not half an hour from now.”
The good old pedagogue his book
Put slowly in its place:
“That Corsican,” he said, “has eyes
Like burning-glasses; race
Italian, as his mother said;
Barred up from friend and foe,
He toils all night, inflexible,
Forging it blow by blow.
Put slowly in its place:
“That Corsican,” he said, “has eyes
Like burning-glasses; race
Italian, as his mother said;
Barred up from friend and foe,
He toils all night, inflexible,
Forging it blow by blow.
“I know his trick of thought, the way
He covers up his mouth:
One hand like this, the other clenched—
Those eyes of the hot South.
The little Cæsar, how he strides,
Sleep-walking in the sun,
Only awaking at the roar
Of the meridian gun.
He covers up his mouth:
One hand like this, the other clenched—
Those eyes of the hot South.
The little Cæsar, how he strides,
Sleep-walking in the sun,
Only awaking at the roar
Of the meridian gun.
“I watched him underneath my book
That day he sprung the mine,
For when the earth-wall rocked and reeled,
His eyes were all a-shine;
And when it slowly toppled down,
He leaped up on the heap
With fiery haste—just as a wolf
Would spring upon a sheep.
That day he sprung the mine,
For when the earth-wall rocked and reeled,
His eyes were all a-shine;
And when it slowly toppled down,
He leaped up on the heap
With fiery haste—just as a wolf
Would spring upon a sheep.
“Pichegru, Napoleon's monitor,
Tells me he's dull and calm,
Tenacious, firm, submissive—yes,
Our chain is on his arm.
Volcanic natures, such as his,
I dread;—may God direct
This boy to good—the evil quell—
His better will direct.
Tells me he's dull and calm,
Tenacious, firm, submissive—yes,
Our chain is on his arm.
Volcanic natures, such as his,
I dread;—may God direct
This boy to good—the evil quell—
His better will direct.
“Here is his Euclid book—the ink
Still wet upon the rings;
These are the talismans some day
He'll use to fetter kings.
To train a genius like this lad
I've prayed for years—for years;
But now I know not whether hopes
Are not half choked by fears.
Still wet upon the rings;
These are the talismans some day
He'll use to fetter kings.
To train a genius like this lad
I've prayed for years—for years;
But now I know not whether hopes
Are not half choked by fears.
“Last Monday, when they built that fort
With bastions of snow,
The ditch, and spur, and ravelin,
And terraced row on row,
'T was Bonaparte who cut the trench,
Who shaped the line of sap,—
A year or two, and he will be
First in war's bloody gap.
With bastions of snow,
The ditch, and spur, and ravelin,
And terraced row on row,
'T was Bonaparte who cut the trench,
Who shaped the line of sap,—
A year or two, and he will be
First in war's bloody gap.
“I see him now upon the hill,
His hands behind his back,
Waving the tricolor that led
The vanguard of attack;
And there, upon the trampled earth,
The ruins of the fort,
This Bonaparte, the schoolboy king,
Held his victorious court.
His hands behind his back,
Waving the tricolor that led
The vanguard of attack;
And there, upon the trampled earth,
The ruins of the fort,
This Bonaparte, the schoolboy king,
Held his victorious court.
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“To see him give the shouting crowd
His little hand to kiss,
You'd think him never meant by God
For any lot but this.
And then with loud exulting cheers,
Upon their shoulders borne,
He rode with buried Cæsar's pride,
And Alexander's scorn.
His little hand to kiss,
You'd think him never meant by God
For any lot but this.
And then with loud exulting cheers,
Upon their shoulders borne,
He rode with buried Cæsar's pride,
And Alexander's scorn.
“Ah! I remember, too, the day
The fire-balloon went up;
It burnt away into a star
Ere I went off to sup;
But he stood weeping there alone
Until the dark night came,
To think he had not wings to fly
And catch the passing flame.
The fire-balloon went up;
It burnt away into a star
Ere I went off to sup;
But he stood weeping there alone
Until the dark night came,
To think he had not wings to fly
And catch the passing flame.
“Oh! he is meant for mighty things,
This leader of my class;—
But there's the bell that rings for me,
So let the matter pass.
You see that third-floor window lit,
The blind drawn half-way down;
That's Bonaparte's—he's at it now—
It makes the dunces frown.”
This leader of my class;—
But there's the bell that rings for me,
So let the matter pass.
You see that third-floor window lit,
The blind drawn half-way down;
That's Bonaparte's—he's at it now—
It makes the dunces frown.”
V. MADAME MÈRE.
[Napoleon's undeviating affection for his mother was one of the finest features of his private character.
—Desmoulins.]
The Luxembourg was full of kings,
As round rich Dives' gate
The lepers came; the Emperor,
Like Charlemagne in state,
Sat high o'er all. The uniforms
Were many-coloured there,
But humble as a Quakeress
Was simple Madame Mère.
As round rich Dives' gate
The lepers came; the Emperor,
Like Charlemagne in state,
Sat high o'er all. The uniforms
Were many-coloured there,
But humble as a Quakeress
Was simple Madame Mère.
There was the courtly Talleyrand,
Hoof-legged—a devil lame;
Old Fouché, bulldog-faced and rough,
Bowed worshipping the flame
Of this great fiery central sun.
From ugly and from fair
He turned his head to watch the face
Of simple Madame Mère.
Hoof-legged—a devil lame;
Old Fouché, bulldog-faced and rough,
Bowed worshipping the flame
Of this great fiery central sun.
From ugly and from fair
He turned his head to watch the face
Of simple Madame Mère.
Le Braves des Braves stood there erect,
Taming his lion heart,
And Soult, his manly, eager eyes
Fixed on this Bonaparte.
The old noblesse, half shy, afraid,
Were crawling humbly there,
In whispering crowds around the chair
Of simple Madame Mère.
Taming his lion heart,
And Soult, his manly, eager eyes
Fixed on this Bonaparte.
The old noblesse, half shy, afraid,
Were crawling humbly there,
In whispering crowds around the chair
Of simple Madame Mère.
There was Murat, a circus king,
All cherry cloth and lace,
And Augereau, the Jacobin,
A butcher's son by race,
With half a dozen subject-kings,
The meanest vassals there:
He turned from all to kiss the hand
Of smiling Madame Mère.
All cherry cloth and lace,
And Augereau, the Jacobin,
A butcher's son by race,
With half a dozen subject-kings,
The meanest vassals there:
He turned from all to kiss the hand
Of smiling Madame Mère.
VI. THE RETREAT FROM MOSCOW.
AS IT APPEARED TO A POLISH ABBÉ, AT WARSAW, DECEMBER 16th, 1812.
The yellow snow-fog curdled thick,
Dark, brooding, dull, and brown,
About the ramparts, hiding all
The steeples of the town;
The icicles, as thick as beams,
Hung down from every roof,
When all at once we heard a sound
As of a muffled hoof.
Dark, brooding, dull, and brown,
About the ramparts, hiding all
The steeples of the town;
The icicles, as thick as beams,
Hung down from every roof,
When all at once we heard a sound
As of a muffled hoof.
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'T was nothing but a soldier's horse,
All riderless and torn
With bullets: scarce his bleeding legs
Could reach the gate. A morn
Of horror broke upon us then;
We listened, but no drum—
Only a sullen, distant roar,
Telling us that they come.
All riderless and torn
With bullets: scarce his bleeding legs
Could reach the gate. A morn
Of horror broke upon us then;
We listened, but no drum—
Only a sullen, distant roar,
Telling us that they come.
Next, slowly staggering through the fog,
A grenadier reeled past,
A bloody turban round his head,
His pallid face aghast.
Behind him, with an arm bound up
With half a Russian flag,
Came one—then three—the last one sopped
His breast with crimson rag.
A grenadier reeled past,
A bloody turban round his head,
His pallid face aghast.
Behind him, with an arm bound up
With half a Russian flag,
Came one—then three—the last one sopped
His breast with crimson rag.
Quick all at once a sullen bell
Upon the gateway tower
Broke out, to warn our citizens
Napoleon's savage power
Had gone to wreck, and these the waifs
Were making fast to land.
It bade us look to see the hulk
Sucked hellward by the sand.
Upon the gateway tower
Broke out, to warn our citizens
Napoleon's savage power
Had gone to wreck, and these the waifs
Were making fast to land.
It bade us look to see the hulk
Sucked hellward by the sand.
All day the frozen, bleeding men
Came pouring through the place;
Drums broken, colours torn to shreds,
Foul wounds on every face.
Black powder-waggons, scorched and split,
Broad wheels caked thick with snow,
Red bayonets bent, and swords that still
Were reeking from the blow.
Came pouring through the place;
Drums broken, colours torn to shreds,
Foul wounds on every face.
Black powder-waggons, scorched and split,
Broad wheels caked thick with snow,
Red bayonets bent, and swords that still
Were reeking from the blow.
A drunken rabble, pale and wan,
With cursing faces turned
To where, still threatening in the rear,
The port-fires lurid burned.
The ground was strewn with epaulettes,
Letters, and cards, and songs;
The barrels, leaking drops of gold,
Were trampled by the throngs.
With cursing faces turned
To where, still threatening in the rear,
The port-fires lurid burned.
The ground was strewn with epaulettes,
Letters, and cards, and songs;
The barrels, leaking drops of gold,
Were trampled by the throngs.
A brutal, selfish, goring mob,
Yet here and there a trace
Of the divine shone out, and lit
A gashed and suffering face.
Here came a youth, who on his back
His dying father bore;
With bandaged feet the brave youth limped,
Slow, shuddering, dripping gore.
Yet here and there a trace
Of the divine shone out, and lit
A gashed and suffering face.
Here came a youth, who on his back
His dying father bore;
With bandaged feet the brave youth limped,
Slow, shuddering, dripping gore.
And even 'mid the trampling crowd,
Maimed, crippled by the frost,
I found that every spark of good
Was not extinct and lost.
Deep in the ranks of savage men
I saw two grenadiers
Leading their corporal, his breast
Stabbed by the Cossack spears.
Maimed, crippled by the frost,
I found that every spark of good
Was not extinct and lost.
Deep in the ranks of savage men
I saw two grenadiers
Leading their corporal, his breast
Stabbed by the Cossack spears.
He saved that boy, whose tearful eyes
Were fixed upon the three—
Although too weak to beat his drum
Still for his company.
Half-stripped, or wrapped in furs and gowns,
The broken ranks went on:
They ran if any one called out
“The Cossacks of the Don!”
Were fixed upon the three—
Although too weak to beat his drum
Still for his company.
Half-stripped, or wrapped in furs and gowns,
The broken ranks went on:
They ran if any one called out
“The Cossacks of the Don!”
The whispered rumour, like a fire,
Spreads fast from street to street;
With boding look and shaking head
The staring gossips meet:
“Ten thousand horses every night
Were smitten by the frost;
Full thirty thousand rank and file
In Beresina lost.
Spreads fast from street to street;
With boding look and shaking head
The staring gossips meet:
“Ten thousand horses every night
Were smitten by the frost;
Full thirty thousand rank and file
In Beresina lost.
“The Cossacks fill their caps with gold
The Frenchmen fling away.
Napoleon was shot the first,
And only lived a day—
They say that Caulaincourt is lost—
The guns are left behind:
God's curse has fallen on these thieves—
He sent the snow and wind.”
The Frenchmen fling away.
Napoleon was shot the first,
And only lived a day—
They say that Caulaincourt is lost—
The guns are left behind:
God's curse has fallen on these thieves—
He sent the snow and wind.”
228
Tired of the clatter and the noise,
I sought an inner room,
Where twenty wax lights, starry clear,
Drove off the fog and gloom.
I took my wanton Ovid down,
And soon forgot the scene,
As through my dreams I saw arise
The rosy-bosomed queen.
I sought an inner room,
Where twenty wax lights, starry clear,
Drove off the fog and gloom.
I took my wanton Ovid down,
And soon forgot the scene,
As through my dreams I saw arise
The rosy-bosomed queen.
My wine stood mantling in the glass
(The goblet of Voltaire),
I sipped and dozed, and dozed and sipped,
Slow rocking in my chair,
When open flew the bursting door,
And Caulaincourt stalked in—
Tall, gaunt, and wrapped in frozen furs,
Hard frozen to his skin.
(The goblet of Voltaire),
I sipped and dozed, and dozed and sipped,
Slow rocking in my chair,
When open flew the bursting door,
And Caulaincourt stalked in—
Tall, gaunt, and wrapped in frozen furs,
Hard frozen to his skin.
The wretched hag of the low inn
Puffed at the sullen fire
Of spitting wood, that hissed and smoked:
There stood the Jove whose ire
But lately set the world aflame,
Wrapped in a green pelisse,
Fur-lined, and stiff with half-burnt lace,
Trying to seem at ease.
Puffed at the sullen fire
Of spitting wood, that hissed and smoked:
There stood the Jove whose ire
But lately set the world aflame,
Wrapped in a green pelisse,
Fur-lined, and stiff with half-burnt lace,
Trying to seem at ease.
“Bah! Du sublime au ridicule
Il n'y a qu'un pas,”
He said. “The rascals think they've made
A comet of my star.
The army broken—dangers?—pish!—
I did not bring the frost.
Levy ten thousand Poles, Duroc—
Who tells me we have lost?
Il n'y a qu'un pas,”
He said. “The rascals think they've made
A comet of my star.
The army broken—dangers?—pish!—
I did not bring the frost.
Levy ten thousand Poles, Duroc—
Who tells me we have lost?
“I beat them everywhere, Murat—
It is a costly game;
But nothing venture, nothing win—
I'm sorry now we came.
That burning Moscow was a deed
Worthy of ancient Rome—
Mind that I gild the Invalides
To match the Kremlin dome.
It is a costly game;
But nothing venture, nothing win—
I'm sorry now we came.
That burning Moscow was a deed
Worthy of ancient Rome—
Mind that I gild the Invalides
To match the Kremlin dome.
“Well? well as Beelzebub himself!”
He leaped into the sleigh
Sent for to bear this Cæsar off
Upon his ruthless way.
A flash of fire!—the courtyard stones
Snapped out—the landlord cheered—
In a hell-gulf of pitchy dark
The carriage disappeared.
He leaped into the sleigh
Sent for to bear this Cæsar off
Upon his ruthless way.
A flash of fire!—the courtyard stones
Snapped out—the landlord cheered—
In a hell-gulf of pitchy dark
The carriage disappeared.
VII. THE VISIT TO THE MILITARY HOSPITAL,
AFTER BAUTZEN, 1813.
“This is the fate of those who war,”
Napoleon said to me;
“High at the morn, but low at night.
Take down that map and see
How many leagues we won to-day.
Ten losses. I retire.
One victory. Berlin, Breslau,
Shall crumble at my fire.”
Napoleon said to me;
“High at the morn, but low at night.
Take down that map and see
How many leagues we won to-day.
Ten losses. I retire.
One victory. Berlin, Breslau,
Shall crumble at my fire.”
We stood outside the Thirteenth Ward,
He spoke as hushed and low
As if each word on some sick man
Would fall a smiting blow;
He turned the handle very soft
As to one sleeping, then
We stood beside the line of beds,
Among the wounded men.
He spoke as hushed and low
As if each word on some sick man
Would fall a smiting blow;
He turned the handle very soft
As to one sleeping, then
We stood beside the line of beds,
Among the wounded men.
He laid his hand with woman's care
Upon a soldier's brow;
The dying face turned slowly up.
“Do you not know me now?
Your Emperor?” The dying lips
Struggled for life, the heart
Beat once, the sick man faltered out,
“Comrades, 't is Bonaparte!”
Upon a soldier's brow;
The dying face turned slowly up.
“Do you not know me now?
Your Emperor?” The dying lips
Struggled for life, the heart
Beat once, the sick man faltered out,
“Comrades, 't is Bonaparte!”
229
Then with a groan lay down again,
To pray for him and die.
The tears sprang up into my eyes
When, faint and weak, the cry
Ran through the ward of Austerlitz,
“The Emperor is come!”
And one poor boy with bandaged hand
Caught at his broken drum.
To pray for him and die.
The tears sprang up into my eyes
When, faint and weak, the cry
Ran through the ward of Austerlitz,
“The Emperor is come!”
And one poor boy with bandaged hand
Caught at his broken drum.
The dying on their pillows rose,
To swell the hoarse, low cheer
That rolled along—'t was pitiful,
Yet saddening to hear.
“My children,” cried the Emperor,
“My old Imperial Guards,
My ‘Salamanders,’ ‘Never-turns,’
My ‘Lions,’ my ‘Die-hards,’
To swell the hoarse, low cheer
That rolled along—'t was pitiful,
Yet saddening to hear.
“My children,” cried the Emperor,
“My old Imperial Guards,
My ‘Salamanders,’ ‘Never-turns,’
My ‘Lions,’ my ‘Die-hards,’
“I love you as I love my life;
We are the self-same stock.
France cares for you—'t was you who bled
To build her on the rock;
Your wives and orphans she will take
To her capacious heart.
Dare she forget them while he reigns,
Your little Bonaparte?
We are the self-same stock.
France cares for you—'t was you who bled
To build her on the rock;
Your wives and orphans she will take
To her capacious heart.
Dare she forget them while he reigns,
Your little Bonaparte?
“My children ------” But the rare-seem tears
Rose up and filled his throat,
As every bugler took his horn
And blew the battle note;
And then the wounded drummer-boy,
Two dead men's beds betwixt,
Crawled to the floor and slung his drum,
And plied the little sticks.
Rose up and filled his throat,
As every bugler took his horn
And blew the battle note;
And then the wounded drummer-boy,
Two dead men's beds betwixt,
Crawled to the floor and slung his drum,
And plied the little sticks.
A one-armed man took off a flag
He'd bound around his waist,
To sop and stanch the brave heart's blood
That from his gashes raced.
He waved it round his feeble head,
His large eyes all a-fire,
Then let it drop, and laid him down,
The brave man—to expire.
He'd bound around his waist,
To sop and stanch the brave heart's blood
That from his gashes raced.
He waved it round his feeble head,
His large eyes all a-fire,
Then let it drop, and laid him down,
The brave man—to expire.
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