ADDRESSED TO AN OLD SOLDIER OF NAPOLEON, ON SEEING HIM WEEP WHILE LISTENING TO "BONAPARTE'S MARCH OF RETREAT."
J.C.D.
What vision of the past is thine, In bleeding Memory's cup, That thus one simple strain should call Its bitterness all up, In form as palpable as light Upon the eastern sky, As well defined as penciled lines Unto the artist's eye?
Think'st thou of him, the idolized, That thus the tear-drops start? Think'st thou of him, the worshiped one In every soldier's heart? One throne he built dissolved as ice Before a fiery flame; But one endureth evermore, While France repeats his name!
One throne he built, but built of clay; It sank beneath his weight, And kings and emperors looked on, With mingled fear and hate; But one he built of adamant, Within each Frenchman's heart;— France! he was thine, and thou wert his, Not to be named apart!
Vive l'Empereur! Français, the cry Has often met thine ear, To be re-echoed by a host Of hearts that held him dear; "Vive l'Empereur!"the old glad cry Hath now a sound of woe; Thou think'st of what he was, and now Thy hot eyes overflow.
Once more Marengo's glorious field Is peopled for thine eyes; Again the sun of Austerlitz On other fields doth rise. And Jena's crimson eye is red As Borodino's sun;— Thou hear'st the once familiar shout, "Once more his star has won!"
But for a moment! from thy brow, Fadeth the transient smile, And thou dost turn, with a bursting heart, To think of St. Helen's isle! Vieux soldat! well thine eye may glow With pride and gloom, Napoleon's glory, dimmed within thy heart, Blends with the exile's tomb.
