University of Virginia Library

2. Part II. NAPOLEON FALLEN.

SCENE.—THE CHATEAU OF WILHELMSHÖHE, IN CASSEL.
CHORUS.

NAPOLEON. A PHYSICIAN.
Physician.
The sickness is no sickness of the flesh,
No ailment such as common mortals feel,
But spiritual: 'tis thy fiery thought
Drying the wholesome humour of the veins,
Consuming the brain's substance, and from thence,
As flame spreads, thro' each muscle, vein, and nerve,
Reaching the vital members. If your Highness
Could stoop from the tense strain of great affairs
To books and music, or such idle things
As wing the weary hours for lesser men!
Turn not thine eyes to France; receive no news;
Shut out the blinding gleam of battle; rest
From all fierce ache of thought; and for a time
Let the wild world go by.

Napoleon.
Enough, old friend:
Thine is most wholesome counsel. I will seek
To make this feverish mass of nerve and thew,
This thing of fretful heart-beats,
Fulfil its functions more mechanically.
Farewell.

Physician.
Farewell, Sire. Brighter waking thoughts,
And sweeter dreams, attend thee!

[Exit.
Napoleon.

CHORUS.

NAPOLEON. A BISHOP.
Napoleon.
Speak out thy tidings quickly,
How fares it with the Empress and my son?

Bishop.
Well, Sire. They bid thee look thy fate in the face,
And be of cheer.

Napoleon.
Where didst thou part with them?

Bishop.
In England, Sire, where they have found a home
Among the frozen-blooded islanders,
Who yesterday called blessings on thy brow,
And now rejoice in thy calamity.
Thus much thy mighty lady bade me say,
If I should find thee private in thy woe:—
With thy great name the streets are garrulous:
Mart, theatre, and church, palace and prison,
Down to the very commons by the road
Where Egypt's bastard children pitch their tents,
Murmur “Napoleon;” but, alas! the sound
Is as an echo that with no refrain,
No loving echo in a living voice,
Dies a cold death among the mountain snow.

Napoleon.
Old man, I never looked for friendship there,
I never loved that England in my heart;
Tho' twas by such a sampler I believed
To weave our France's fortunes thriftily
With the gold tissues of prosperity.

Bishop.
Ah, Sire, if I dare speak—

Napoleon.
Speak on.

Bishop.
Too much
Thine eyes to that cold isle of heretics
Turn'd from thy throne for use and precedent;
Too little did they look, and that too late,
On that strong rock whereon the Lord thy God
Hath built His Holy Church.

Napoleon.
Something of this
I have heard in happier seasons.

Bishop.
Hear it now
In the dark day of thine adversity.
O Sire, by him who holds the blessed Keys,
Christ's Vicar on the earth for blinded men,
I do conjure thee, hearken—with my mouth,
Tho' I am weak and low, the Holy Church
Cries to her erring son!

Napoleon.
Well, well, he hears.

Bishop.
Thou smilest, Sire. With such a smile, so grim,
So bitter, didst thou mock our blessed cause
In thy prosperity.

Napoleon.
False, Bishop, false!
I made a bloody circle with my sword
Round the old Father's head, and so secured him
Safe on his tottering Seat against the world,
When all the world cried that his time was come.
What then? He totter'd on. I could not prop
His Seat up with my sword, that Seat being built,
Not on a rock, but sand.

Bishop.
The world is sick
And old indeed, when lips like thine blaspheme.
Whisper such words out on the common air,
And, as a child,
Blow thy last hopes away.

Napoleon.
Hopes, hopes! What hopes?
What knowest thou of hopes?

Bishop.
Thy throne was rear'd
(Nay hear me, Sire, in patience to the end)
Not on the vulgar unsubstantial air
Which men call Freedom, not on half consent
Of unbelievers—tho', alas! thou hast stoop'd
To smile on unbelievers—not on lives
That saw in thee one of the good and wise,
Not wholly on the watchword of thy name;
But first on this—the swords thy gold could buy,
And most and last, upon the help of those
Who to remotest corners of our land
Watch o'er the souls of men, sit at their hearths,
Lend their solemnity to birth and death,
Guide as they list the motions of the mind,
And as they list with darkness or with light
Appease the spiritual hunger. Where
Had France been, and thou, boasted Sun of France,
For nineteen harvests, save for those who crept
Thine agents into every cottage-door,
Slowly diffusing thro' each vein of France
The sleepy wine of empire? Like to slaves
These served thee, used thy glory for a charm,
Hung up thine image in a peasant's room
Beside our blessed Saints, and cunningly,
As shepherds drive their sheep unto the fold,
Gather'd thy crying people where thy hand
Might choose them out for very butchery.
Nay, more; as fearful men may stamp out fire,
They in the spirits of thy people killed
The sparks of peril left from those dark days,
When France being drunk with blood and mad with pain
Sprang on the burning pyre, and with her raiment
Burning and streaming crimson in the wind,
Curst and denied her God. They made men see,
Yea, in the very name of Liberty,
A net of Satan's set to snare the soul
From Christ and Christ's salvation: in their palms
They welded the soft clay of popular thought
To this wish'd semblance yet more cunningly;
Till not a peasant heir of his own fields,
And not a citizen that own'd a house,
And not a man or woman who had saved,
But when some wild voice shriek'd out “Liberty!”
Trembled as if the robber's foot were set
Already on his threshold, and in fear
Clutch'd at his little store. These things did they,
Christ's servants serving thee; they were as veins
Bearing the blood through France from thee its heart
Throbbing full glorious in the capital.
And thou, O Sire, in thine own secret mind
Knowest what meed thou hast accorded them,
Who, thy sworn liegemen in thy triumph-hour,
Are still thy props in thy calamity.

Napoleon.
Well; have you done?

Bishop.
Not yet.

Napoleon.
What more?

Bishop.
Look round
This day on Europe, look upon the World,
Which like a dark tree o'er the river of Time
Hangeth with fruit of races, goodly some,
Some rotten to the core. Out of the heart
Of what had seem'd the sunset of the west,
Rises the Teuton, silent, subtle, and sure,
Gathering his venom slowly like a snake,
Wrapping the sleepy lands in fold by fold;
Then springing up to stab his prey with fangs
Numerous as spears of wheat in harvest time.
O, he is wise, the Teuton, he is deep
As Satan's self in perilous human lore,
Such as the purblind deem philosophy
But, be he cunning as the Tempter was,
Christ yet shall bruise his head; for in himself
He bears, as serpents use,
A brood of lesser snakes, cunning things too
But lesser, and of these many prepare
Such peril as in his most glorious hour
May strike him feebler than the wretched worms
That crawl this day on the dead lambs of France.
Meantime, he to his purpose moves most slow,
And overcomes. Note how, upon her rock,
The sea-beast Albion, swollen with idle years
Of basking in the prosperous sunshine, rolls
Her fearful eyes, and murmurs. See how wildly
The merciless Russian paceth like a bear
His lonely steppes of snow, and with deep moan
Calling his hideous young, casts famished eyes
On that worn Paralytic in the East,
Whom thou of old didst save. Call thou to these
For succour; shall they stir? Will the sea-beast
Budge from her rock? Will the bear leave his wilds?
Then mark how feebly in the wintry cold
Old Austria ruffles up her plumage, Sire,
Covering the half-heal'd wound upon her neck;
See how on Spain her home-bred vermin feed,
As did the worms on Herod; Italy
Is as a dove-cote by a battle-field,
Abandoned to the kites of infamy;
Belgium, Denmark, and Helvetia,
Like plovers watching while the wind-hover
Strikes down one of their miserable kind,
Wheeling upon the wind cry to each other;
And far away the Eagle of the West,
Poised in the lull of her own hurricane,
Sits watching thee with eyes as blank of love
As those grey seas that break beneath her feet.

Napoleon.
This is cold comfort, yet I am patient. Well?
To the issue! Dost thou keep behind the salve
Whose touch shall heal my wounds? or dost thou only,
As any raven on occasion can,
Croak out the stale truth, that the day is lost,
And that the world's slaves knee the conqueror?

Bishop.
Look not on these, thy crownéd peers, for aid,
But inward. Read thy heart.

Napoleon.
It is a book
I have studied somewhat deeply.

Bishop.
In thine heart,
Tho' the cold lips might sneer, the dark brow frown,
Wert thou not ever one believing God?

Napoleon.
I have believed, and do believe, in God.

Bishop.
For that, give thanks to God. He shall uplift thee.

Napoleon.
How?

Bishop.
By the secret hands of His great Church.
Even now in darkness and in tilths remote
They labour in thy service; one by one
They gather up the fallen reins of power
And keep them for thy grasp; so be thou sure,
When thou hast woven round about thy soul
The robe of holiness, and from the hands
Of Holy Church demandest thy lost throne,
It shall be hers to give thee.

Napoleon.
In good truth,
I scarce conceive thee. What, degenerate Rome,
With scarce the power in this strong wind of war
To hold her ragged gauds about her limbs;
Rome, reft of the deep thunder in her voice,
The dark curse in her eye; Rome, old, dumb, blind,—
Shall Rome give Kingdoms?—Why, she hath already
Transferred her own to Heaven.

Bishop.
Canst thou follow
The coming and the going of the wind,
Fathom the green abysses of the sea?
For such as these, is Rome:—the voice of God
Sounding in darkness and a silent place;
The morning dew scarce seen upon the flowers,
Yet drawn to heaven and grown the thunderbolt
That shakes the earth at noon. When man's wild soul
Clutches no more at the white feet of Christ;
When death is not, nor spiritual disease;
When atheists can on the black mountain tops
Walk solitary in the light of stars,
And cry, “God is not;” when no mothers kneel
Moaning on graves of children; when no flashes
Trouble the melancholy dark of dream;
When prayer is hush'd, when the Wise Book is shut—
Then Rome shall fall indeed: meantime she is based
Invulnerable on the soul of man,
Its darkest needs and fears; she doth dispense
What soon or late is better prized than gold,—
Comfort and intercession; for all sin
She hath the swiftest shrift, wherefore her clients
Are those that have sinned deeply, and of such
Is half the dreadful world; all these she holds
By that cold eyeball which hath read their souls,
So that they look upon her secretly
And tremble,—while in her dark book of Fate
E'en now she dooms the Teuton.

[Enter a Messenger.
Napoleon.
Well, what news?

Messenger.
'Tis brief and sad. The mighty Prussian chiefs,
Gathering their fiery van in silence, close
Toward the imperial City—in whose walls
Treason and Rage and Fear contend together
Like hunger-stricken wolves; and at their cry,
Echoed from Paris to the Vosges, France,
Calling her famish'd children round her knees,
Looks at the trembling nations. All is still,
Like to that silence which precedes the storm,
And shakes the forest leaves without a breath;
But surely as the vaporous storm is woven,
The German closes round the heart of France
His hurricane of lives.

Napoleon
(to Bishop).
The Teuton thrives
Under the doom we spake of. (To Messenger.)
Well, speak on!

Messenger.
Meantime, like kine that see the gathering clouds
And shelter 'neath the shade of rocks and trees,
Thy timorous people fly before the sound
Of the approaching footsteps, seeking woods
For shelter, snaring conies for their food,
And sleeping like the beasts; some fare in caves,
Fearing the wholesome air, hushing the cries
Of infants lest the murderous foe should hear;
Some scatter west and south, their frighted eyes
Cast backward, with their wretched household goods;
And where these dwelt, most blest beneath thy rule,
The German legions thrive, let loose like swine
Amid the fields of harvest, in their track
Leaving the smoking ruin, and the church
Most desecrated to a sleeping-sty;—
So that the plenteous lands that rolled in gold
Round thy voluptuous City, lie full bare
To shame, to rapine, to calamity.

Napoleon.
O for one hour of empire, that with life
I might consume this sorrow! 'Tis a spell
By which we are subdued!

Messenger.
Strasbourg still stands,
Stubborn as granite, but the citadel
Is falling. Within, Famine and Horror nest,
And rear their young on ruin.

[Exit.
[Enter a Messenger.
Napoleon.
How, peal on peal!
Like the agonizing clash of bells when flame
Hath seized on some fair city. News, more news?
Dost thou too catch the common trick o' the time,
And ring a melancholy peal?

Messenger.
My liege,
Strasbourg still stands.

Napoleon.
And then?

Messenger.
Pent up in Metz,
Encircled by a river of strong lives,
Bazaine is faithful to the cause and thee,
And from his prison doth proclaim himself,
And all the host of Frenchmen at his back,
Thy liegemen to the death.

Napoleon.
Why, that last peal
Sounds somewhat blither. Well?

Messenger.
From his lone isle,
The old Italian Red-shirt in his age
Hath crawl'd, tho' sickly and infirm, to France,
And slowly there his leonine features breed
Hope in the timid people, who—

Napoleon.
Enough!
[Exit Messenger.
That tune is flat and tame.
[Enter a Messenger.
What man art thou,
On whose swart face the frenzied lightning plays,
Prophetic of the thunder on the tongue?
Speak!

Messenger.
Better I had died at Weissenburg,
Where on the bloody field I lay for dead,
Than live to bring this woe. Ungenerous France,
Forgetful of thy gracious years of reign,
Pitiless as a sated harlot is
When ruin overtaketh him whose hand
Hath loaded her with gems, shameless and mad,
France, like Delilah, now betrays her lord.
The streets are drunken—from thy palace-gate
They pluck the imperial eagles, trampling them
Into the bloody mire; thy flags and pennons,
Torn from their vantage in the wind, are wrapt
In mockery round the beggar's ragged limbs;
And thine imperial images in stone,
Dash'd from their lofty places, strew the ground
In shameful ruin. All the ragged shout,
While Trochu from the presidential seat
Proclaims the empire dead, and calleth up
A new Republic, in whose chairs of office
Thine enemies, scribblers and demagogues,
Simon, Gambetta, Favre, and link'd with these
The miserable Rochefort, trembling grasp
The reins of power, unconscious of the scorn
That doth already doom them. To their feet
Come humming back, vain-drunken, all the wasps
Whom in thine hour of glory thou didst brush
With careless arm-sweep from thy festal cup:
Shoulder'd by mobs the pigmy Blanc declaims,
The hare-brain'd Hugo shrieks a maniac song
In concert, and the scribblers, brandishing
Their pens like valiant lilliputians
Against the Teuton giant, frantically
Scream chorus. Coming with mock-humble eyes
To the Republic, this sham shape of straw,
This stuff'd thing of a harlot's carnival,
The dilettante sons of Orleans, kneeling,
Proffer forsooth their swords, which being disdain'd
They sheathe chapfallen and with bows withdraw
Back to their pictures and perfumery.

Napoleon.
Why, thine is news indeed. Nor do I weep
For mine own wrong, but for the woes of France,
Whose knell thou soundest. With a tongue of fire
Our enemy shall like the ant-eater
Devour these insect rulers suddenly.
(Aside)
Now, may the foul fiend blacken all the air
Above these Frenchmen, with revolt and fear
Darken alike the wits of friends and foes,
With swift confusion and with anarchy
Disturb their fretful councils, till at last,
Many-tongued, wild-hair'd, mad, and horrible
With fiery eyes and naked crimson limbs,
Upriseth the old Spectre of the Red,
And as of yore uplifts the shameful knife
To stab unhappy France; then, in her need,
Fearful and terror-stricken, France shall call
On him who gave her nineteen plenteous years—
And he may rise again.

[Exeunt.
CHORUS.
Who in the name of France curses French souls this day?
How! shall the tempter curse? Silence; and turn away;
Turn we our faces hence white with a wild desire,
Westward we lift our gaze till the straining balls flash fire,
Westward we look to France, sadly we watch and mark:—
Far thro' the pitch-black air, like breaking foam in the dark,
Cometh and goeth a light across the stricken land,
And we hear a distant voice like the wash of waves on the sand.

Voices.
Set the cannon on the heights, and under
Let the black moat gape, the black graves grow!
Now let thunder
Answer back the thunder of the foe!
France has torn her cerements asunder,
France doth live to strike the oppressor low.

Chorus.
O hark! O hark! a voice arises wild and strong,
Loud as a bell that rings alarm it lifts the song.
See! see! the dark is lit, fire upon fire upsprings,
Loudly from town to town the fiery tiding rings.
Now the red smithies blaze and the blue steel is sped,
They twist bright steel for guns, they cast the fatal lead;
Cannon is drawn to the gate,—and lo, the bravest stand
Bare to the shoulder there, smoke-begrim'd, fuse in hand,
Now to the winds of heaven the Flag of Stars they raise,
While those sing martial songs who are too frail for frays.
France is uprisen again! France the sworn slayer of Kings!
With bleeding breast and bitter heart at the Teuton's throat she springs.

Voices.
Now like thunder
Be our voice together while we cry;
Kings shall never hold our spirits under,
Kings shall cast their crowns aside and fly:
Latin, Sclav, or Teuton, they shall wonder;
The soul of man hath doom'd them—let them die.
We have slain Kings of old, they were our own to slay,
But now we doom all Kings until the Judgment day,
Raise ye the Flag of Stars! Tremble, O Kings, and behold!
Raise ye the Flag of Man, while the knell of anarchs is tolled.
This is a festal day for all the seed of Eve;
France shall redeem the world, and heal all hearts that grieve;
France with her sword this day shall free all human things,
With blood drain'd from her heart our France shall write the doom of Kings.

Chorus.
Silence and hearken yet! O but it is a cry
Heard under heaven of old, tho' the terrible day blew by.
The red fire flames to heaven, and in the crimson glow
Black shapes with prayers and cries are gliding to and fro.

Voices.
Fill each loophole with a man! and finding
Each a foe, aim slowly at the brain,
While the blinding
Lightnings flash, and the great guns refrain.
To the roofs! and while beneath the foe are winding,
Dash ye stones and missiles down like rain.
Watch for the grey-beard King: to drink his blood were great.
Watch for the Cub thereto—aim at his brain full straight.
Watch most for that foul Knave who crawls behind the crown,
Who smiles befooling all with crafty eyes cast down;
Sweeter than wine indeed his wretched blood would flow,
Curst juggler with our souls, he who hath wrought this woe.
France hath uprisen again! Let the fierce shaft be sped
Till all the foul satanic things that flatter Kings be dead.

Chorus.
Echo the dreadful prayer, let the fierce shaft be sped,
Till all the foul satanic things that flatter Kings be dead!

Voices.
Send the light balloon aloft with singing,
Let our hopes rise with it to the sky,
Let our voices like one fount upspringing
Tell the mighty realm that hope is nigh!
See, in answer, from the distance winging
Back unto our feet the swift doves fly!

Chorus.
We see the City now, dark square and street and mart,
The muffled drum doth sound réveille in its heart,
The chain'd balloon doth swing, while men stand murmuring by,
Then with elastic bound upleaps into the sky.
We see the brightening dawn, the dimly dappled land,
The shapes with arms outstretch'd that on the housetops stand,
The eyes that turn to meet with one quick flash of fear
The birds that sad and slow wing nearer and more near.
O courage! all is well—yea, let your hearts be higher,
North, south, east, west, the souls of Frenchmen are as fire,
The reaper leaves the wheat, the workman leaves his loom,
Tho' the black priest may frown who heeds his look of gloom?
Flash the wild tidings forth! ring them from town to town,
Till like a storm of scythes ye rise, and the foe like wheat go down.

Voices.
See! how northward the wild heavens lighten,
Red as blood the fierce aurora waves,
Let it bathe us strong in blood and brighten
Sweet with resurrection on our graves,
Lighten, lighten,
Scroll of God!—unfold above and brighten,
Light the doom of monarchs and their slaves.
This is a day indeed—be sure that God can see.
Raise the fierce cry again, “Liberty! Liberty!”
Courage! No man dies twice, and he shall live in death,
Who for the Flag of Stars strikes with his latest breath.
Nay, not a foe shall live to tell if France be slain:
If the wild cause be lost, only the grave shall gain.
Teuton and Frank in fierce embrace shall strew the fatal sod,
And they shall live indeed who died to save their souls for God.

Chorus.
O Spirits turn and look no more and hark not to their cry,
A Hand is flashed before our eyes, a Shape goes sadly by.
And as it goes, it looks on us with eyes that swim in tears,
And bitter as the death-cry sounds the echo in our ears.
O look no more and seek no more to read the days unborn,
'Tis storm this night on the world's sea, and 'twill be storm at morn.
The Lord hath sent his breath abroad, and all the waves are stirr'd:
Amid the tempest Liberty flies like a white sea-bird,
And, while the heavens are torn apart and the fierce waters gleam,
Doth up and down the furrow'd waves dart with a sea-bird's scream.
O bow the head, and close the eyes, and pray a quiet prayer,
But let the bitter curse of Man go by upon the air.

NAPOLEON. An OFFICER.
Napoleon.
Is there no hope for France?

Officer.
None. Yet I know not!
A nation thus miraculously strengthen'd,
And acting in the fiercest wrath of love,
Hath risen ere this above calamity,
And out of anguish conjured victory.
If strength and numbers, if the mighty hands
Of the Briareus, shall decide the day,
Then surely as the sun sets France must fall;
If love or prayer can make a miracle
And bring an angel down to strike for her,
Then France may rise again.

Napoleon.
Have we not proved
Her children cowards? Yea, by God! Like dogs
That rend the air with wrath upon the chain,
And being loosen'd slink before the thief,
They fail'd me—those who led and those who follow'd;
Scarce knowing friend from foe, while inch by inch
The Germans ate their ranks as a slow fire
Devoureth wind-blown wheat. I cannot trust
In France or Frenchmen.

Officer.
Sire—

Napoleon.
Why dost thou hang
Thy head, old friend, and look upon the ground?
Nay, if all Frenchmen had but hearts like thine,
Then France were blest in sooth, and I, its master,
Were safe against the swords of all the world.

Officer.
Sire, 'twas not that I meant—my life is yours
To give or take, to blame or praise; I blush'd
Not for myself, but France.

Napoleon.
Then hadst thou cause
For crimson cheeks indeed.

Officer.
Sire, as I live,
Thou wrongest her! The breast whereon we grew
Suckled no cowards. For one dizzy hour
France totter'd, and look'd back; but now indeed
She hath arisen to the very height
Of her great peril.

Napoleon.
'Tis too late. She is lost.
She did betray her master, and shall die.

Officer.
Not France betrayed thee, Sire; but rather those
Whom thy most noble nature, royally based
Above suspicion and perfidious fear,
Welcom'd unto thy council; not poor France,
Whose bleeding wounds speak for her loud as tongues,
Bit at the hand that raised her up so high;
Not France, but bastard Frenchmen, doubly damn'd
Alike by her who bare them and by thee
Who fed them. These betrayed thee to thy doom,
And falling clutch'd at thine imperial crown,
Dragging it with them to the bloody dust;
But these that held her arms like bands of lead
Being torn from off her, France, unchain'd and free,
Uplifts her pale front to the stars, and stands
Serene in doom and danger, and sublime
In resurrection.

Napoleon.
How the popular taint
Corrupts the wholesome matter of thy mind!
This would be treason, friend, if we were strong—
Now 'tis less perilous: the commonest wind
Can blow its scorn upon the fallen.

Officer.
Sire,
Behold me on my knees, tears in mine eyes,
And sorrow in my heart. My life is thine,
My life, my heart, my soul are pledged to thine;
And trebly now doth thy calamity
Hold me thy slave and servant. If I pray,
'Tis that thou mayst arise, and thou shalt rise;
And if I praise our common mother, France,
Who for the moment hath forgot her lord,
'Tis that my soul rejoices for thy sake,
That when thou comest to thine own again
Thy realm shall be a realm regenerate,
Baptized a fair thing worthy of thy love
In its own blood of direful victory.

Napoleon.
Sayest thou?—Rise!—Friend, thou art little skilled
In reading that abstruse astrology
Whereby our cunning politicians cast
The fate of Kings. France robed in victory
Is France for ever lost to our great house.
France fallen, is France that with my secret hand
I may uplift again. But tell thy tale
Most freely: let thy soul beat its free wings
Before me as it lists. Come! as thou sayest,
France is no coward;—she hath at last arisen;
Nay, more—she is sublime. Proceed.

Officer.
My liege,
God, ere he made me thy most loving servant,
Made and baptized me, Frenchman; and my heart,
A soldier's heart, yearns out this day in pride
To her who bare me, and both great and low
My brethren. Courage is a virtue, Sire,
Even in a wretched cause. In Strasbourg still
Old Uhrich with his weight of seventy years
Starves unsubdued, while the dull enemy
Look on in wonder at such strength in woe;
Bazaine still keeps the glittering hosts at bay,
And holds them with a watchful hand and eye;
The captain of the citadel at Laon,
Soon as the foeman gather'd on his walls,
Illumed the hidden mine, and Frank and Teuton,
With that they strove for, strew'd the path in death;
From Paris to the Vosges, loud and wild
The tocsin rings to arms, and on the fields
The fat ripe ear empties itself unreapt,
While every man whose hand can grasp a sword
Flocks to the petty standard of his town;
The many looms of the great factory
Stand silent, but the fiery moulds of clay
Are fashioning cannon, and the blinding wheels
Are sharpening steel. In every market-place
Peasant and prince are drilling side by side;
Roused from their wine-fed torpor, changed from swine
To men, the very country burghers arm,
Nay, what is more to them than blood, bleed gold
Bounteously, freely. I have heard that priests,
Doffing the holy cossack secretly,
Shouting uplift the sword, and crying Christ
To aid them strike for France. Only the basest,
Only the scum, shrink now; for even women,
Catching the noble fever of the time,
Buckle the war-belts round their lovers' waists,
And clapping hands, with mingled cries and sobs,
Urge young and old against the enemy.

Napoleon.
Of so much thunder may the lightning spring.
I know how France can thunder, and I have felt
How women's tongues can urge. But what of Paris?
What of the city of light? How doth it bear
The terror and the agony?

Officer.
Most bravely,
As doth become the glorious heart of France:
Strong, fearless, throbbing with a martial might,
Dispensing from its core the vital heat
Which filleth all the members of the land;
Tho' even now the sharp steel pricks the skin,
To stab it in its strength.

Napoleon.
Who holds the reins
Within the gates?

Officer.
Trochu.

Napoleon.
Still? Why, how long
Have the poor fools been constant? Favre also?
Gambetta? Rochefort? All these gentlemen
Still flourish? And Thiers? Hath the arch-schemer
A seat among the gods, a place of rank
With the ephemera?

Officer.
Not so, my liege.

Napoleon.
Well, being seated on Olympus' top,
What thunderbolts are France's puny Joves
Casting abroad? Or do they sit and quake
For awe of their own voices, which in France,
As in the shifting glaciers of the Alps,
May bring the avalanche upon their heads?

Officer.
The men, to do them justice, use their power
Calmly and soldierly, and for a time
Forget the bitter humours of the senate
In the great common cause. Paris is strong,
And full of noble souls.

Napoleon.
Paris must fall.

Officer.
Not soon, my liege—for she is belted round
And arm'd impregnable on every side.
Hunger and thirst may slay her, not the sword;
And ere the foeman's foot is heard within,
Paris will spring upon her funeral pyre
And follow Hope to heaven. Last week I walk'd
Reading men's faces in the silent streets,
And, as I am a soldier, saw in none
Fear or capitulation: very harlots
Cried in their shame the name of Liberty,
And, hustled from the gates, shriek'd out a curse
Upon the coming Teuton: all was still
And dreadful; but the citizens in silence
Drilled in the squares; on the great boulevard groups
Whisper'd together, with their faces pale
At white heat; in the silent theatre,
Dim lit by lamps, were women, wives and mothers,
Silently working for their wounded sons
And husbands; in the churches too they sat
And wrought, while ever and anon a foot
Rung on the pavement, and with sad red eyes
They turn'd to see some armëd citizen
Kneel at his orisons or vespers. Nightly,
Ere the moon rose, the City slept like death;
Yet as a lion sleeps, with half-shut eyes,
Hearing each murmur on the weary wind,
Crouching and ready for the spring. Each dawn
I saw the country carts come rumbling in,
And the scared country-folk, with large wild eyes
And open mouths, who flock'd for shelter bringing
Horrible tidings of the enemy
Who had devoured their fields and happy homes.
Then suddenly like a low earthquake came
The rumour that the foe was at the gates;
And climbing a cathedral roof that night,
I saw the pitch-black distance sown with fire
Gleam phosphorescent like the midnight sea,
And heard at intervals mysterious sound,
Like far off thunder or the Atlantic waves
Clashing on some great headland in a storm,
Come smother'd from afar. But, lingering yet,
I haunted the great City in disguise,
While silently the fatal rings were wound
Around about it by the Teuton hosts:
Still, as I am a soldier, saw no face
That look'd capitulation: rather saw
The knitted eyebrow and the clenchëd teeth,
The stealthy hand that fingered with the sword,
The eye that glanced as swift as hunger's doth
Towards the battlements. Then (for at last
A voice was raised against my life) I sought
Trochu, my schoolfellow and friend in arms,
And, though his brow darkened a moment's space,
He knew me faithful and reached out his hand
To save me. By his secret help I found
A place in a balloon, that in the dusk
Ere daylight rose upon a moaning wind
And drifted southward with the drifting clouds;
And as the white and frosty daylight grew,
And opening crimson as a rose's leaves
The clouds to eastward parted, I beheld
The imperial City, gables, roofs, and spires,
White and fantastic as a city of dream,
Gleam orient, while the muffled drums within
Sounded réveille; then a red flash and wreath
Of vapour broke across the outer line,
Where the black fortifications frowning rose
Ring above ring around the imperial gates,
And flash on flash succeeded with a sound
Most faint and lagging wearily behind.
Still all without the City seemed as husht
As sleep or death. But as the reddening day
Scattered the mists, the tiny villages
Loomed dim; and there were distant glimmerings,
And far-off muffled sounds: yet scarce a sign
Showed the innumerable enemy,—
Who snugly housed and canopied with stone
Lay hidden in their strength; only the watch-fire
Gleam'd here and there, only from place to place
Masses of shadow seem'd to move, and light
Was glittered dimly back from hidden steel;
And, woefullest sight of all, miles to the west,
Along the dark line of the foe's advance,
On the straight rim where earth and heaven meet,
The forests blazed and to the driving clouds
Cast blood-red phantoms growing dim in day.
Meantime, like one whirl'd in a dizzy dream,
Onward we drove below the driving cloud,
And from the region of the burning fire
And smouldering hamlet rose still higher, and saw
The white stars like to tapers burning out
Above the region of the nether storm,
And the illimitable ether growing
Silent and dark in the deep wintry dawn.

[Enter a Messenger.
Messenger.
Most weighty news, my liege, from Italy.

Napoleon.
Yes?

Messenger.
Rome is taken. The imperial walls
Yawn where the cannon smote; in the red streets
Romans embracing shout for Liberty;
From Florence to Messina bonfires blaze,
And rockets rise and wild shouts shake the air;
And with the thunder in his aged ears,
Surrounded by his cold-eyed Cardinals,
Clutching his spiritual crown more close,
Trembling with dotage, sits the grey-haired Pope
Anathematizing in the Vatican.

[Exit.
Officer.
Woe to the head on whom his curse shall fall,
For in the day of judgment it shall be
Better with Sodom and Gomorrah. Wait!
This is the twilight; red will rise the dawn.

Napoleon.
Peace, friend; yet if it ease thy heart, speak on.
I would to God, I did believe in God
As thou dost. Twilight surely—'tis indeed
A twilight—and therein from their fair spheres
Kings shoot like stars. How many nights of late
The heavens have troubled been with fiery signs,
With characters like monstrous hieroglyphs,
And the aurora, brighter than the day
And red as blood, has burnt from west to east.

Officer.
I do believe the melancholy air
Is full of pain and portent.

Napoleon.
Would to God
I had more faith in God, for in this work
I fail to trace His hand; but rather feel
The nether-shock of earthquake everywhere
Shaking old thrones and new, those rear'd on rock
As well as those on sand. All darkens yet,
And in that darkness, while with cheeks of snow
The affrighted people gaze at one another,
The Teuton still, mouthing of Deity,
Works steadfastly to some mysterious end.
My heart was never Rome's so much as now,
Now, when she shares my cup of agony.
Agony! Is this agony? then indeed
All life is agony.

Officer.
Your Imperial Highness
Is suffering! Take comfort, Sire.

Napoleon.
It is nought—
Only a passing spasm at the heart—
'Tis my disease, comrade; 'tis my disease!
So leave me: it is late; and I would rest.

Officer.
God in his gracious goodness give thee health.

Napoleon.
Pray that He may; for am I deeply sick—
Too sick for surgery—too sick for drugs—
Too sick for man to heal. 'Tis a complaint
Incident to our house; and of the same
Mine imperial uncle died.
[Exit Officer.
France in the dust,
With the dark Spectre of the Red above her!
Rome fallen! Aye me, well may the face of heaven
Burn like a fiery scroll. Had I but eyes
To read whose name is written next for doom!
The Teuton's? O the Serpent, that has bided
His time so long, and now has stabbed so deep!
Would I might bruise his head before I die!

[Exit.
Night. NAPOLEON sleeping. CHORUS of SPIRITS.
A Voice.
What shapes are ye whose shades darken his rest this night?

Chorus.
Cold from the grave we come, out of the dark to the light.

A Voice.
Voices ye have that moan, and eyes ye have that weep,
Ah! woe for him who feels such shadows round his sleep!

Chorus.
Tho' thou wert buried and dead,
Still would we seek thee and find thee,
Ever there follows the tread
Of feet from the tomb behind thee;
Sleep, shall thy soul have sleep?
Nay, but be broken and shaken.
Gather around him and weep,
Trouble him till he awaken.

A Voice.
Who, in imperial raiment, darkly frowning stand,
Laurel-leaves in their hair, sceptred yet sword in hand.

Another Voice.
Who in their shadow looms, woman-eyed, woe-begone,
And bares his breast to show the piteous wounds thereon?

Chorus.
Peace, they are Kings, they are crowned;
Kings, tho' their realms have departed,
Realms of the grave they have found,
And they walk in the same heavy-hearted.
Sleep? did their souls have sleep?
Nay, for like his was their being.
Gather around him and weep,
Awake him to hearing and seeing.

Spirit of Cæsar.
Greater than thou I fell. Die; for thy day is o'er.
Thou reap the world with swords? thou wear the robe I wore?
Up like the bird of Jove, I rose from height to height,
Poised on the heavenly air, eyes to the blood-red light;
Swift came the flash of wrath, one long-avenging glare—
Down like a stone I fell, down thro' the dizzy air;
Dark burnt the heaven above, red ran the light of day,
In the great square of Rome, bloody I fell, and lay.

Chorus.
Kings of the realms of fear,
Each the sad ghost of the other,
One by one step near,
Look in the eyes of a brother.
Hush! draw nearer and speak—
And ere he waketh each morrow
Blow on his bloodless cheek
With the chilly wind of your sorrow.

Spirit of Buonaparte.
Greater than thou I fell. Die, Icarus, and give place.
Thou take from my cold grave the glory and the grace!
Out of the fire I came, onward thro' fire I strode;
Under my path earth burnt, o'er it the pale stars glow'd;
Sun of the earth, I leapt up thro' the wondering sky,
Naming my name with God's, Kings knelt as I went by.
Aye; but my day declined;—to one glad cry of the free
My blood-red sunset died on the eternal Sea.

A Voice.
What spirit art thou, with cold still smile and face like snow?

Spirit.
Orsini; and avenged. Too soon I struck the blow.

A Voice.
And thou, with bleeding breast and eyes that roll in pain?

Spirit.
I am that Maximilian, miserably slain.

A Voice.
And ye, O shadowy things, featureless, wild, and stark?

Voices.
We are the nameless ones whom he hath slain in the dark.

A Voice.
Ye whom this man hath doom'd, Spirits, are ye all there?

Chorus.
Not yet; they come, they come—they darken all the air.

A Voice.
O latest come, and what are ye? Why do ye moan and call?

Chorus.
O hush! O hush! they come to speak the bitterest curse of all.

Spirits.

Semi-Chorus I.
Tho' thou wert buried and dead,
Still would they seek thee and find thee,
Ever there follows the tread
Of feet from the grave behind thee.

Spirit of Hortense.
Woe! woe! woe!

Semi-Chorus II.
Ye who saw sad light fall,
Thro' the chink of the dungeon gleaming,
And watch'd your shade on the wall
Till it took a sad friend's seeming;
Ye who in speechless pain
Fled from the doom and the danger,
And dragging a patriot's chain
Died in the land of the stranger;
Men who stagger'd and died,
Even as beasts in the traces,
Women he set aside
For the trade of polluting embraces,
Say, shall his soul have sleep,
Or shall it be troubled and shaken?

Chorus.
Gather around him and weep,
Trouble him till he awaken.

NAPOLEON
(awakening).
[He opens a Life of Jesus and reads. A long pause.
[Looks forth. A starry night.

CHORUS.