ROBERT BROWNING.
* * * * *
THE BRONZE STATUE OF NAPOLEON.
The work is done! the spent flame burns no more,
The furnace fires smoke and die,
The iron flood boils over. Ope the door,
And let the haughty one pass by!
Roar, mighty river, rush upon your course,
A bound,--and, from your dwelling past,
Dash forward, like a torrent from its source,
A flame from the volcano cast!
To gulp your lava-waves earth's jaws extend,
Your fury in one mass fling forth,--
In your steel mould, O Bronze, a slave descend,
An emperor return to earth!
Again NAPOLEON,--'tis his form appears!
Hard soldier in unending quarrel,
Who cost so much of insult, blood, and tears,
For only a few boughs of laurel!
For mourning France it was a day of grief,
When, down from its high station flung,
His mighty statue, like some shameful thief,
In coils of a vile rope was hung;
When we beheld at the grand column's base,
And o'er a shrieking cable bowed,
The stranger's strength that mighty bronze displace
To hurrahs of a foreign crowd;
When, forced by thousand arms, head-foremost thrown,
The proud mass cast in monarch mould
Made sudden fall, and on the hard, cold stone
Its iron carcass sternly rolled.
The Hun, the stupid Hun, with soiled, rank skin,
Ignoble fury in his glance,
The emperor's form the kennel's filth within
Drew after him, in face of France!
On those within whose bosoms hearts hold reign,
That hour like remorse must weigh
On each French brow,--'tis the eternal stain,
Which only death can wash away!
I saw, where palace-walls gave shade and ease,
The wagons of the foreign force;
I saw them strip the bark which clothed our trees,
To cast it to their hungry horse.
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