The eye which marked its peerless edge,
The hand that weighed its balanced poise,
Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge,
Are gone with all their flame and noise-
And still the gleaming sword remains;
So, when in dust I low am laid,
Remember, by those heart-felt strains,
I gave my soldier boy a blade.
Before this mortal shall assume
Its immortality!
I saw a vision in my sleep,
That gave my spirit strength to sweep
Adown the gulf of Time!
I saw the last of human mould
That shall Creation's death behold,
As Adam saw her prime!
The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,
The Earth with age was wan,
The skeletons of nations were
Around that lonely man!
Some had expired in fight,—the brands
Still rusted in their bony hands;
In plague and famine some!
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread;
And ships were drifting with the dead
To shores where all was dumb!
Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,
With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sere leaves from the wood,
As if a storm passed by,
Saying, We are twins in death, proud Sun! Thy face is cold, thy race is run,
'Tis Mercy bids thee go:
For thou ten thousand thousand years
Hast seen the tide of human tears,
That shall no longer flow.
What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill;
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,
The vassals of his will;-
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrownèd king of day:
For all those trophied arts
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Healed not a passion or a pang
Entailed on human hearts.
Go, let Oblivion's curtain fall
Upon the stage of men,
Nor with thy rising beams recall
Life's tragedy again.
Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack
Of pain anew to writhe;
Stretched in disease's shapes abhorred,
Or mown in battle by the sword,
Like grass beneath the scythe.
Even I am weary in yon skies
To watch thy fading fire;
Test of all sumless agonies,
Behold not me expire.
My lips that speak thy dirge of death-
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast.
The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,-
The majesty of darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost!
This spirit shall return to Him
Who gave its heavenly spark;
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim
When thou thyself art dark!
No! it shall live again, and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,
By Him recalled to breath,
Who captive led Captivity,
Who robbed the grave of victory,-
And took the sting from Death!
Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up
On Nature's awful waste
To drink this last and bitter cup
Of grief that man shall taste-
Go, tell the Night that hides thy face,
Thou sawest the last of Adam's race,
On Earth's sepulchral clod,
The darkening universe defy
To quench his Immortality,
Or shake his trust in God!
NAPOLEON! he hath come again-borne home
Upon the popular ebbing heart,—a sea
Which gathers its own wrecks perpetually,
Majestically moaning. Give him room!—
Room for the dead in Paris! welcome solemn
And grave deep, 'neath the cannon-moulded column !*
There, weapon spent and warrior spent may rest
From roar of fields: provided Jupiter
Dare trust Saturnus to lie down so near
His bolts! And this he may: For, dispossessed
Of any godship, lies the god-like arm-
The goat, Jove sucked, as likely to do harm.
.. Napoleon!-the recovered name Shakes the old casements of the world! and we Look out upon the passing pageantry,
Attesting that the Dead makes good his claim
To a Gaul grave,-another kingdom won-
The last-of few spans-by Napoleon.
Blood fell like dew beneath his sunrise-sooth!
But glittered dew-like in the covenanted
And high-rayed light. He was a despot-granted!
But the avros of his autocratic mouth
Said yea i' the people's French: he magnified
The image of the freedom he denied.
And if they asked for rights, he made reply,
'Ye have my glory!"--and so, drawing round them
His ample purple, glorified and bound them
In an embrace that seemed identity.
He ruled them like a tyrant-true! but none
Were ruled like slaves! Each felt Napoleon!
I do not praise this man: the man was flawed
For Adam-much more, Christ!-his knee, unbent-
His hand, unclean-his aspiration, pent
Within a sword-sweep-pshaw !--but since he had
The genius to be loved, why let him have
The justice to be honored in his grave.
It was the first intention to bury him under the column.
I think this nation's tears, poured thus together,
Nobler than shouts: I think this funeral
Grander than crownings, though a Pope bless all:
I think this grave stronger than thrones: But whether
The crowned Napoleon or the buried clay
Be better, I discern not-Angels may.
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