Select poems / by L.H. Sigourney [electronic resource]

NAPOLEON AT HELENA.

"The moon of St. Helena shone out, and there we saw the face of Napoleon's sepulchre, characterless, uninscribed."

And who shall write thine epitaph? thou man Of mystery and might. Shall orphan hands Inscribe it with their fathers' broken swords? Or the warm trickling of the widow's tear Channel it slowly 'mid the rugged rock, As the keen torture of the water-drop Doth wear the sentenc'd brain? Shall countless ghosts Arise from Hades, and in lurid flame, With shadowy finger, trace thine effigy, Who sent them to their audit unannealed, And with but that brief space for shrift or prayer, Given at the cannon's month? Thou who didst sit Like eagle on the apex of the globe,

And hear the murmur of its conquer'd tribes, As chirp the weak-voic'd nations of the grass, Say, art thou sepulchred in yon far isle,— Yon little speck, which scarce the mariner Descries 'mid ocean's foam? Thou who didst hew A pathway for thy host above the cloud, Guiding their footsteps o'er the frost-work crown Of the thron'd Alps,—why dost thou sleep, unmark'd Even by such slight memento as the hind Carves on his own coarse tomb-stone? Bid the throng Who pour'd thee incense, as Olympian Jove, Breathing thy thunders on the battle-field, Return and deck thy monument. Those forms O'er the wide valleys of red slaughter strew'd, From pole to tropic, and from zone to zone, Heed not the clarion-call. Yet, should they rise, As in the vision that the prophet saw, Each dry bone to its fellow,—or in heaps Should pile their pillar'd dust,—might not the stars Deem that again the puny pride of man Did build its Babel-stairs, creeping, by stealth, To dwell with them? But here, unwept, thou art, Like some dead lion in his thicket-lair, With neither living man, nor spectre lone, To trace thine epitaph. Invoke the climes That serv'd as playthings, in thy desperate game

Of mad ambition, or their treasures strew'd To pay thy reckoning, till gaunt Famine fed Upon their vitals. France! who gave so free Thy life-stream to his cup of wine, and saw That purple vintage shed o'er half the earth, Write the first line, if thou hast blood to spare. Thou, too, whose pride adorn'd dead Cæsar's tomb, And pour'd high requiem o'er the tyrant train Who rul'd thee to thy cost, lend us thine arts Of sculpture and of classic eloquence To grace his obsequies at whose dark frown Thine ancient spirit quail'd; and to the list Of mutilated kings, who glean'd their meat 'Neath Agag's table, add the name of Rome. Turn, Austria! iron-brow'd and stern of heart, And on his monument to whom thou gav'st In anger battle, and in craft a bride, Grave Austerlitz, and fiercely turn away. Rouse Prussia from her trance with Jena's name, Like the rein'd war-horse, at the trumpet-blast, And take her witness to that fame which soars O'er him of Macedon, and shames the vaunt Of Scandinavia's madman. From the shades Of letter'd ease, O Germany! come forth With pen of fire, and from thy troubled scroll, Such as thou spread'st at Leipsic, gather tints Of deeper character than bold romance

Hath ever imag'd in her wildest dream, Or history trusted to her sibyl leaves. Hail, lotus-crown'd! in thy green childhood fed By stiff-neck'd Pharaoh, and the shepherd kings, Hast thou no trait of him who drench'd thy sands, At Jaffa and Aboukir? when the flight Of rushing souls went up so strange and strong To the accusing Spirit? Glorious isle! Whose thrice enwreathed chain, Promethean like, Did bind him to the fatal rock, we ask Thy deep memento for this marble tomb. Ho! fur-clad Russia! with thy spear of frost, Or with thy winter-mocking Cossack's lance, Stir the cold memories of thy vengeful brain, And give the last line of our epitaph.

But there was silence. Not a sceptred band Receiv'd the challenge. From the misty deep Rise, island-spirits! like those sisters three, Who spin and cut the trembling thread of life, Rise on your coral pedestals, and write That eulogy which haughtier climes deny. Come, for ye lulled him in your matron arms, And cheer'd his exile with the name of king, And spread that curtain'd couch which none disturb; Come, twine some bud of household tenderness,

Some tender leaflet, nurs'd with nature's tears,Around this urn. But Corsica, who rock'd His cradle at Ajaccio, turn'd away; And tiny Elba in the Tuscan wave Plung'd her slight annul with the haste of fear; And lone St. Helena, heart-sick, and grey 'Neath rude Atlantic's scourging, bade the moon, With silent finger, point the traveller's gave [sicgaze (?)] To an unhonored tomb. Then Earth arose, That blind old empress, on her crumbling throne, And, to the echoed question—"Who shall write Napoleon's epitaph?"—as one who broods O'er unforgiven injuries, answer'd—"None."