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A Scene at Brienne
LE PÈRE 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, | 5 |
| 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: | 10 |
| “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, | 15 |
| 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. | 20 |
| 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 | 25 |
| 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 | 30 |
| 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, | 35 |
| 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. | 40 |
| |
| “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 | 45 |
| 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, | 50 |
| 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 | 55 |
| 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; | 60 |
| And there, upon the trampled earth, | |
| The ruins of the fort, | |
| This Bonaparte, the school-boy king, | |
| Held his victorious court. | |
| |
| “To see him give the shouting crowd | 65 |
| 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, | 70 |
| 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 | 75 |
| 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. | 80 |
| |
| “O, 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, | 85 |
| The blind drawn half-way down; | |
| That ’s Bonaparte’s,—he ’s at it now,— | |
| It makes the dunces frown.” | |
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