[Original Size]
THE MIDNIGHT VISIT
It was the Lord of Castlereagh, he sat within his room,
His arms were crossed upon his breast, his face was
marked with gloom;
They said that St Helena's Isle had rendered up its
charge,
That France was bristling high in arms—the Emperor at
large.
'Twas midnight! all the lamps were dim, and dull as
death the street,
It might be that the watchman slept that night upon his
beat,
When lo! a heavy foot was heard to creak upon the
stair,
The door revolved upon its hinge—Great Heaven!—What
enters there?
A little man, of stately mien, with slow and solemn
stride;
His hands are crossed upon his back, his coat is opened
wide;
And on his vest of green he wears an eagle and a
star,—
Saint George! protect us! 'tis The Man—the thunder-
bolt of war!
Is that the famous hat that waved along Marengo's
ridge?
Are these the spurs of Austerlitz—the boots of Lodi's
bridge?
Leads he the conscript swarm again from France's hornet
hive?
What seeks the fell usurper here, in Britain, and alive?
Pale grew the Lord of Castlereagh, his tongue was parched
and dry,
As in his brain he felt the glare of that tremendous eye;
What wonder if he shrunk in fear, for who could meet the
glance
Of him who reared, 'mid Russian snows, the gonfalon of
France?