“To-morrow in thy very teeth my standard will I rear—
Ay, well that ashen cheek of thine may blanch and shrink with fear!
To-morrow night another town shall sink in ghastly flames;
And as I crossed the Borodin, so shall I cross the Thames!
“Thou’lt seize me, wilt thou, ere the dawn? Weak lordling, do thy worst!
These hands ere now have broke thy chains, thy fetters they have burst.
Yet, wouldst thou know my resting-place? Behold, ’tis written there!
And let thy coward myrmidons approach me if they dare!”
Another pinch, another stride—he passes through the door—
“Was it a phantom or a man was standing on the floor?
And could that be the Emperor that moved before my eyes?
Ah, yes! too sure it was himself, for here the paper lies!”
With trembling hands Lord Castlereagh undid the mystic scroll,
With glassy eye essayed to read, for fear was on his soul—
“What’s here?—‘At Astley’s, every night, the play of Moscow’s Fall!
Napoleon, for the thousandth time, by Mr Gomersal!’”
The Lay of The Lovelorn.
Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the chair,
I shall leave you for a little, for I’d like to take the air.