Who strew’d our earth with hostile bones,
And can he thus survive?
Since he, miscall’d the Morning Star,
Nor man nor fiend has fallen so far.”
This indeed is “the scorn of scorn,” and the entire ode is replete with it. Byron, who had been a great admirer of Napoleon, could not consent to his idol lowering himself so far as to receive his life from England. He could not forgive himself for yielding to
“That spell upon the minds of men
That led them to adore
Those Pagod things of sabre-sway,
With fronts of brass, and feet of clay.”