Zinzendorff and Other Poems/Napoleon's Epitaph
NAPOLEON'S EPITAPH.
"The moon of St. Helena shone out, and there we saw the face of Napoleon's sepulchre, characterless, uninscribed."
And who shall write thine epitaph? thou man
Of mystery and might.
Shall orphan hands
Inscribe it with their fathers' broken swords?
Or the warm trickling of the widows' tear,
Channel it slowly 'mid the rugged rock,
As the keen torture of the water-drop
Doth wear the sentenc'd brain?
Shall countless ghosts
Arise from Hades, and in lurid flame
With shadowy finger trace thine effigy,
Who sent them to their audit unanneal'd,
And with but that brief space for shrift or prayer,
Given at the cannon's mouth?
Thou who did'st sit
Like eagle on the apex of the globe,
And hear the murmur of its conquer'd tribes,
As chirp the weak-voic'd nations of the grass,
Why art thou sepulchred in yon far Isle,
Yon little speck, which scarce the mariner
Descries mid ocean's foam? Thou who didst hew
A pathway for thy host above the cloud,
Guiding their footsteps o'er the frost-work crown
Of the thron'd Alps,—why dost thou sleep unmark'd,
Even by such slight memento as the hind
Carves on his own coarse tomb-stone?
Bid the throng
Who pour'd thee incense, as Olympian Jove,
And breath'd thy thunders on the battle field,
Return, and rear thy monument. Those forms
O'er the wide vallies of red slaughter spread,
From pole to tropic, and from zone to zone,
Heed not thy clarion call. But should they rise,
As in the vision that the prophet saw,
And each dry bone its sever'd fellow find,
Piling their pillar'd dust, as erst they gave
Their souls for thee, the wondering stars might deem
A second time the puny pride of man
Did creep by stealth upon its Babel stairs,
To dwell with them. But here unwept thou art,
Like a dead lion in his thicket-lair,
With neither living man, nor spirit condemn'd,
To write thine epitaph.
Invoke the climes,
Who serv'd as playthings in thy desperate game
Of mad ambition, or their treasures strew'd
Till meagre famine on their vitals prey'd,
To pay thy reckoning.
France! who gave so free
Thy life-stream to his cup of wine, and saw
That purple vintage shed o'er half the earth,
Write the first line, if thou hast blood to spare.
Thou too, whose pride did deck dead Cæsar's tomb,
And chant high requiem o'er the tyrant band
Who had their birth with thee, lend us thine arts
Of sculpture and of classic eloquence
To grace his obsequies, at whose dark frown
Thine ancient spirit quail'd; and to the list
Of mutilated kings, who glean'd their meat
'Neath Agag's table, add the name of Rome.
—Turn Austria! iron-brow'd and stern of heart,
And on his monument, to whom thou gav'st
In anger, battle, and in craft a bride,
Grave Austerlitz, and fiercely turn away.
—As the rein'd war-horse snuffs the trumpet-blast,
Rouse Prussia from her trance with Jena's name,
And bid her witness to that fame which soars
O'er him of Macedon, and shames the vaunt
Of Scandinavia's madman.
From the shades
Of letter'd ease, Oh Germany! come forth
With pen of fire, and from thy troubled scroll
Such as thou spread'st at Leipsic, gather tints
Of deeper character than bold romance
Hath ever imag'd in her wildest dream,
Or history trusted to her sibyl-leaves.
—Hail, lotus crown'd! in thy green childhood fed,
By stiff-neck'd Pharaoh, and the shepherd kings,
Hast thou no tale of him who drench'd thy sands
At Jaffa and Aboukir? when the flight
Of rushing souls went up so strange and strong
To the accusing Spirit?
Glorious Isle!
Whose thrice enwreathed chain, Promethean like
Did bind him to the fatal rock, we ask
Thy deep memento for this marble tomb.
—Ho! fur-clad Russia! with thy spear of frost,
Or with thy winter-mocking Cossack's lance,
Stir the cold memories of thy vengeful brain,
And give the last line of our epitaph.
—But there was silence: for no sceptred hand
Receiv'd the challenge.
From the misty deep
Rise, Island-spirits! like those sisters three,
Who spin and cut the trembling thread of life;
Rise on your coral pedestals, and write
That eulogy which haughtier climes deny.
Come, for ye lull'd him in your matron arms,
And cheer'd his exile with the name of king,
And spread that curtain'd couch which none disturb;
Come, twine some trait of household tenderness
Some tender leaflet, nurs'd with Nature's tears
Around this urn. But Corsica, who rock'd
His cradle at Ajacio, turn'd away,
And tiny Elba, in the Tuscan wave
Threw her slight annal with the haste of fear,
And rude Helena sick at heart, and grey
'Neath the Pacific's smiting, bade the moon
With silent finger, point the traveler's gaze
To an unhonor'd tomb.
Then Earth arose,
That blind, old Empress, on her crumbling throne,
And to the echoed question, "who shall write
Napoleon's epitaph?" as one who broods
O'er unforgiven injuries, answer'd, "none."