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(Born August 15, 1769)
THY breath was fire! And fire was on thy brow! | |
| Dealing out lightnings on thy ceaseless tramp, | |
| Thou mad’st the heads of haughty kings to bow, | |
| When the exultant welcome of thy camp | |
| Hailed thee in summer’s heat and winter’s damp. | 5 |
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| Born for a day, thou Destiny didst know, | |
| And, eager, longedst thy victories to claim! | |
| Thy soul-star shown on Borodino’s woe, | |
| On Jena’s corpse-strewn field, in Wagram’s flame! | |
| Europe, o’erawed, crouched shuddering at thy name. | 10 |
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| Hark to that echo born of crushing glooms | |
| That o’er thy sepulcher continually flits! | |
| It is the murmur of ten thousand tombs! | |
| Each soldier corpse stiff in his coffin sits, | |
| Hailing the thunders of thine Austerlitz! | 15 |
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| Dost thou, oh giant! lead those warriors still | |
| In other planets to the valorous strife? | |
| Dost thou urge on thy phalanxes to kill? | |
| And art thou doomed to lead a battling life | |
| In other spheres, all gore and combat-rife? | 20 |
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| Art thou by God to crush his foes ordained, | |
| Far on the limits of the endless night? | |
| Art thou still chief, and hast thou battles gained | |
| With countless myriad angels in the fight? | |
| Hast thou His sword of flame to sheathe or smite? | 25 |
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| If so, oh! do not grieve for our sad earth, | |
| The men that loved thee are no longer true; | |
| They have forgotten all thy priceless worth; | |
| Long are thy deeds lost as the years grow new, | |
| All that they know of thee is—Waterloo! | 30 |
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