The Legend of Genevieve with other tales and poems. By Delta [i.e. David Macbeth Moir] |
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| NAPOLEON'S ADDRESS
TO THE
STATUE OF HIS SON. |
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| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
 | The Legend of Genevieve |  |
70
NAPOLEON'S ADDRESS TO THE STATUE OF HIS SON.
My dearest thought—my darling son—My beautiful Napoleon;
My dream by night, my waking care—
My only boy, so young and fair!—
As on thy sculptured lines I gaze,
Thou conjurest up my pride of days,
When my wide hopes, beyond control,
Survey'd the world—and grasp'd the whole!
Thou beam'st to me a star of light,
From out the yawning womb of night;
71
Piercing the depths of my despair,
And shedding o'er my cheek the while,
A transient, unaccustom'd smile!
Thou on my sunk heart dost impress
The very weight of happiness;
The visions that I cherish'd long,
To burning recollection throng,
And fill the chambers of the breast
With soothing calm, and placid rest!—
When thus thy filial face I see,
I seem myself renew'd to be,
And to my longing soul is given
All that the frail may taste of Heaven!
Farewell! ambition—lofty schemes—
Heroic deeds—and daring dreams!
Farewell! the field of death and doom—
The pealing gun—and waving plume!
Farewell! the grandeur of the great—
The pomp and pageantry of state!
For, climbing, I have mock'd at fall—
Dared everything, and master'd all—
For what?—To find my bosom's pride,
Possessing, was unsatisfied—
Regardless of the past, and still
A slave to stern, regardless will;
'Mid pain and peril, pressing on
From field to field—from throne to throne.
Heroic deeds—and daring dreams!
Farewell! the field of death and doom—
The pealing gun—and waving plume!
Farewell! the grandeur of the great—
The pomp and pageantry of state!
For, climbing, I have mock'd at fall—
Dared everything, and master'd all—
For what?—To find my bosom's pride,
Possessing, was unsatisfied—
72
A slave to stern, regardless will;
'Mid pain and peril, pressing on
From field to field—from throne to throne.
From my proud eminence cast down;
Deprived of mine imperial crown;
Torn from the host of hearts away,
Whose swell exulted in my sway,
Here am I captived; I, whose soul
Did scan wide earth from pole to pole,
Disdain'd to rest, and loved to range,
Unsatisfied, in search of change!
Fearless as lions, when they haste
Athwart the long Numidian waste,
Were France's hosts, when I, their lord,
Forth to the battle front did fly,
With ardent soul, and flashing sword,
And cheer'd them on to victory—
Tameless as tempests, and as free,
Kings trembled when they thought of me,
And, in my sovereign nod, did own
The tie by which they held their throne!—
From leaguer'd walls, and tented war,
From courts and capitals afar,
Here am I captived;—round my gate,
Frown precipices desolate;
And nought disturbs the silence, save
The dashing of the far-off wave,
The wild wind's melancholy sigh,
Or sea-bird's shrill and savage cry;
And nought is seen within the dell,
Save, to and fro, the sentinel
Pacing his round,—a sign to me
Of uttermost captivity.
Once, at my name's imperial sound,
Deprived of mine imperial crown;
Torn from the host of hearts away,
Whose swell exulted in my sway,
Here am I captived; I, whose soul
Did scan wide earth from pole to pole,
Disdain'd to rest, and loved to range,
Unsatisfied, in search of change!
Fearless as lions, when they haste
Athwart the long Numidian waste,
Were France's hosts, when I, their lord,
Forth to the battle front did fly,
With ardent soul, and flashing sword,
And cheer'd them on to victory—
Tameless as tempests, and as free,
Kings trembled when they thought of me,
And, in my sovereign nod, did own
The tie by which they held their throne!—
From leaguer'd walls, and tented war,
From courts and capitals afar,
73
Frown precipices desolate;
And nought disturbs the silence, save
The dashing of the far-off wave,
The wild wind's melancholy sigh,
Or sea-bird's shrill and savage cry;
And nought is seen within the dell,
Save, to and fro, the sentinel
Pacing his round,—a sign to me
Of uttermost captivity.
France through her valleys echoed round
The citizen and soldier's cry,—
It spake of fame and victory;
And, terror-smitten, France's foes
Did quiver with convulsive throes,
As, like a harbinger of Fear,
'Twas wafted on the unwilling ear!—
Once, when my arm on high was rear'd,
The craven shook, the fearless fear'd;
For danger and for death prepared,
Five hundred thousand blades were bared—
Five hundred thousand bosoms beat,
Expanding with heroic heat!
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Hath fall'n 'mid chance-deciding war,
And I, the reckless charioteer,
A hopeless exile, linger here;—
I, who, amid the battle's tide,
Cover'd with glory, should have died,
And left behind to man and fame
An empty throne, and matchless name!
How shall my fate the world avail?
What is the moral of my tale?—
'Tis this, that what I dearest loved,
A mockery, a vision, proved,—
A phantom glow, whose rainbow dyes,
Flashing, did cheat the dazzled eyes,
And, like the false mirage, did play,
To lure and lead the steps astray;
And that, amid my deep distress,
The objects which I valued less
Did grow to treasures, and impart
Sweet balm to soothe a wounded heart.
Oh! wert thou with me—wert thou here,
My only boy! my child so dear!
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The miseries of captivity;
And I, 'mid earth's lone desert blind,
Should know there bloom'd one flower behind!—
That is a boon denied; dark Death
Must strew his shadows o'er my path,
Before thy face I can behold—
Before thy form I can infold—
Before thy voice, in accents dear,
Again, like music, fills mine ear!
Men, for my sake, shall gaze on thee;
Thy steps shall not unheeded be;
Mean jealousy new fears shall find
In blossoms of thy opening mind;
And snares shall in thy path be laid;
But thou shalt pass on, unafraid,
If in thy swelling heart remains
One red drop from thy father's veins!
Adieu, adieu! beloved boy!
My latest care, and only joy,
Thou solace of my deep distress,
Thou pole-star in my wretchedness!
Wide oceans roll and roar between,
Broad lands and mountains intervene;
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The tie that links me to thy fate,
Nor quench the love, so warm and wild,
With which a father views his child.—
Adieu, adieu! my dearest son!
For me life's sands must soon be run;
Wild flowers above my bosom wave,
And island winds sigh o'er my grave;—
Smile on thy mother; and may she
In thy young looks remember me!
| The Legend of Genevieve | |