What! massacre them, my dread Lord?
BUONAPARTE.
Why not? with me Pity was never the word!
That island once conquer’d, the world is my own,
And its ruins shall furnish the base of my throne.
TALLEYRAND.
What a project! how vast!—yet allow me one word;
Sir, the English are brave, and can wield well the sword.
In defence of their freedom, their King, and their soil,
Not a man but would dare the most perilous toil.
Should our troops but appear, they will rush to the field,
And will die on the spot to a man e’er they yield.
In defence of their honour, their women will fight,
And their navy, triumphant, still sails in our sight.
BUONAPARTE.
Hush, hush, say no more lest some listeners should hear,
And our troops should be taught these fierce Britons to fear.
They are brave; and my soldiers have felt it—what then?
Our numbers are more—to their five, we are ten.
Say their sailors are skilful, oak hearted, and true,
One army may fail, yet another may do.
And though thousands should fatten the sharks in the sea,
There are thousands remaining, to perish for me.
In a night, or a fog, we will silent steal over,
And surprise unexpected, the Castle of Dover.
Then to gull the poor dupes of that navy bound land,
You have lies ready coin’d—’tis your trade, at command.
We will tell them, and swear it, our sole end and aim,
Is to make them all equally rich—all the same.
I see by your smile you interpret my meaning,
That where my troops reap, they leave nothing for gleaning.
They soar at a palace, they swoop to a cot,
And plunder—not leaving one bone for the pot.
Now, Sir, to your duty, your business prepare,
Leave the rest to my Genius, my fortune, my care.
[Exit Buonaparte, Talleyrand looking after him.
TALLEYRAND.
Your fortune, I fear, Sir, will play you a trick:—
Notwithstanding his vaunts, he is touch’d to the quick.
What folly! what madness, this project inspires,
To conquer a nation, whom liberty fires.
Even now from their shores, loudly echoed, I hear
The song of defiance appalling mine ear.
Their spirit once rous’d, what destruction awakes!
What vengeance, the wretched invaders o’ertakes.
Prophetic, I plead, but my warning is vain,
Ambition still urges, and maddens his brain:
Fired with hopes of rich booty, his soldiers all burn,
They may go, some may land, but not one will return.