An ancient man, a stately man,
Came forth beneath the spreading tree,
His silent thoughts I could not scan,
His tears I needs must see.
A trembling hand had partly cover’d
The old man’s weeping countenance,
Yet something o’er his sorrow hover’d
That spake of War and France;
Something that spake of other days,
When trumpets pierced the kindling air,
And the keen eye could firmly gaze
Through battle’s crimson glare.
Said I, Perchance this faded hand,
When Life beat high, and Hope was young,
By Lodi’s wave—on Syria’s sand—
The bolt of death hath flung.
Young Buonaparte’s battle-cry
Perchance hath kindled this old cheek;
It is no shame that he should sigh,—
His heart is like to break.
He hath been with him, young and old;
He climb’d with him the Alpine snow;
He heard the cannon when they roll’d
Along the silver Po.
His soul was as a sword, to leap
At his accustom’d leader’s word;
I love to see the old man weep,—
He knew no other lord.
As if it were but yesternight,
This man remembers dark Eylau,—
His dreams are of the Eagle’s flight,
Victorious long ago.
The memories of worser time
Are all as shadows unto him;
Fresh stands the picture of his prime,—
The later trace is dim.
I enter’d, and I saw him lie
Within the chamber, all alone,
I drew near very solemnly
To dead Napoleon.
He was not shrouded in a shroud,
He lay not like the vulgar dead,
Yet all of haughty, stern, and proud
From his pale brow was fled.