Ода Наполеону, соч. 41

'Tis done. But yesterday a king, and armed with kings to Strive, And now thou art a nameless thing. So abject, Yet alive. Is this the man of thousand thrones, Whose foot thou earth wouldst have bones? And can he thus survive? Since he, miscalled the Morning Star, Nor man nor fiend, hath fallen so far. Ill-minded man, why scourge thy kind to Bow so low the knee? By gazing on thyself grown blind, Thou taughtst the rest to see. With might unquestioned, power to save, Thine only gift hath been the grave to those That worship thee. Nor till thy fall could mortals guess, Ambitious, Less Than littleness. Thanks for that lesson to Teach, to after warriors more than high philosophy Can reach, and vainly preach before. That spell upon the minds of men breaks never To unite again, that led them to adore those Finger-lings of savior slave with once a rest And now pain. The triumph And the vanity, The rapture Of the strife, And the earthquake voice of victory To give the breath of life to his sword, His scepter, and his sway, which men seemed made But to obey when wounded renown was rife. All quelled that spirit. What must be the madness of thy memory? The desolater, desolate. The victor overthrown. The arbiter of others' fate, A suppliant For his own. Is it some yet imperial hope that with such Change can calmly cope? Or Dread of death alone? To die a prince Or live a slave, thy choice is Most ignobly brave. He who of old would rend the oak dreamed Not of the rebound. Chained by the trunk he vainly broke, Alone thou looked he round. Thou, in the sternness of thy strength, An equal deed hast done at length, And darker fate hast found. He fell before his foes praying, But thou must heed thy heart awaking. The Roman, when his burning heart was faked with Blood of Rome, threw down the dagger, Dared depart his savage grandeur home. He dared depart in utter scorn of men that Such a yoke had borne, yet left him such A doom. His only glory was that hour of self-upheld Abandoned power. The Spaniard, When the lust of sway had lost its quickening Spell, Cast crowns for rosaries away, An empire for a cell. A strict accountant of his beads, A subtle disputant on creeds, His dotage trifled well. Yet better had he neither known a bigger shrine Nor death's Persona. But thou, From thy reluctant hand, the thunderbolt is wrung. To lay, thou leav'st the high command to which Thy weakness clung. Oh, evil spirit as thou art, it is enough To grieve the heart, to see thine own arm Strunt. To think the fair world had been a Fool stool of a thing so mean. And earth has spilled blood for him Who thus can hoard his own. And monarchs bow the trembling limb And thank him for a throne. Fair freedom, we may hold thee dear when thus Thy mightiest foes their fair in humblest guise Hast shown. Oh, ne'er may tyrant leave behind A brighter name to lure mankind. Thy deed builds deeds, a writ in gore, Nor written thus in vain. Thy triumph's tale of fame no more or deepen Every stain. If thou hadst died as Honored dies, Some new Napoleon might arise to shake the World again. But who would soar this solar height to set In such a starless night? Weight in the balance, hero dust, Is vile as vulgar clay. Thy scales, mortality, are just to all That pass away. But yet, Methought the living great, some higher sparks Should animate, To dazzle and dismay. Nor did contempt could thus make mirth of these, The conquerors of the earth. And She, proud Austria's mournful Flower, Thy still imperial bride, how bears her breast the Torturing hour? Still clings she to thy side. Must she too bend? Must she too share thy late repentance, Long despair? Thou throneless homicide, if still she Loves thee, oh, the gem, 'tis worth thy Vanished diadem. Then haste thee to thy Solon Isle, And gaze upon the Sea. That element may meet thy smile If ne'er was ruled by thee. Or traced with thine own idle hand in Loitering mood upon the sand. That earth is now as free. That Corinth's pedagogue had now transferred his Byword Scap'd his cage. What thoughts will there be thine While brooding thy prison rage? But one: "The world was mine!" Unless like he of Babylon All senses with thy Sceptre gone, Life will not long confine That spirit Poured so widely forth, So long the bait, So little worth. Or like the thief of fire from heaven Wilt Thou withstand the shock And share with him the Unforgiven, His vulture and his rock? Forsaken by God, by man Accursed, And at last decked Though not thy worst, in Many a sackcloth, He in his fall preserved his pride And, If a mortal, had as proudly died. There was a day, there was an hour While Earth was gold, gold thine With that Immeasurable power Unsated to resign Had been an act Of purer fame Than gathers round Marengo's name, And he with thy decline Through the long twilight Of all time, Despite some passing clouds of Crime. But thou, Forsooth, Must be a king And don the purple vest As if that foolish robe could bring Remembrance to Thy breast! Where is that faded garment Where the cub was Thou wast fond to wear? The star? The string? The crest? Vain forward child of empire, Say, Are all thy playthings snatched away? Where may the Weary diary pause When gazing on the great? Where neither guilty glory glows Nor despicable state? Yes, One, The first, the last, The best, The Cincinnatus of the West, Whom envy dared not hate, Bequeath the name of Washington To make men blush There was but one!