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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| IV. | IV. THE SCHOOLBOY KING.
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 | Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs |  |
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.”
| Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs | |