The Works of Lord Byron Volume III Part 51

VIII.

The Spaniard, when the l.u.s.t of sway Had lost its quickening spell,[252]

Cast crowns for rosaries away, An empire for a cell; A strict accountant of his beads, A subtle disputant on creeds, His dotage trifled well:[253]

Yet better had he neither known A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne.

IX.

But thou--from thy reluctant hand The thunderbolt is wrung-- Too late thou leav'st the high command To which thy weakness clung; All Evil Spirit as thou art, It is enough to grieve the heart To see thine own unstrung; To think that G.o.d's fair world hath been The footstool of a thing so mean;

X.

And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, Who thus can h.o.a.rd his own!

And Monarchs bowed the trembling limb, And thanked him for a throne!

Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear, When thus thy mightiest foes their fear In humblest guise have shown.

Oh! ne'er may tyrant leave behind A brighter name to lure mankind!

XI.

Thine evil deeds are writ in gore, Nor written thus in vain-- Thy triumphs tell of fame no more, Or deepen every stain: If thou hadst died as Honour dies, Some new Napoleon might arise, To shame the world again-- But who would soar the solar height, To set in such a starless night?[ip]

XII.

Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust Is vile as vulgar clay;[iq]

Thy scales, Mortality! are just To all that pa.s.s away: But yet methought the living great Some higher sparks should animate, To dazzle and dismay: Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make mirth Of these, the Conquerors of the earth.

XIII.[254]

And she, proud Austria's mournful flower, Thy still imperial bride; How bears her breast the torturing hour?

Still clings she to thy side?

Must she too bend, must she too share Thy late repentance, long despair, Thou throneless Homicide?

If still she loves thee, h.o.a.rd that gem,-- 'Tis worth thy vanished diadem![255]

XIV.

Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, And gaze upon the sea;[ir]

That element may meet thy smile-- It ne'er was ruled by thee!

Or trace with thine all idle hand[is]

In loitering mood upon the sand That Earth is now as free!

That Corinth's pedagogue[256] hath now Transferred his by-word to thy brow.

XV.

Thou Timour! in his captive's cage[257][it]

What thoughts will there be thine, While brooding in thy prisoned rage?

But one--"The world _was_ mine!"

Unless, like he of Babylon,[258]

All sense is with thy sceptre gone,[259]

Life will not long confine That spirit poured so widely forth-- So long obeyed--so little worth!

XVI.

Or, like the thief of fire from heaven,[260]

Wilt thou withstand the shock?

And share with him, the unforgiven, His vulture and his rock!

Foredoomed by G.o.d--by man accurst,[iu]

And that last act, though not thy worst, The very Fiend's arch mock;[261]

He in his fall preserved his pride, And, if a mortal, had as proudly died![iv][262]

XVII.

There was a day--there was an hour, While earth was Gaul's--Gaul thine--[iw]

When that immeasurable power Unsated to resign Had been an act of purer fame Than gathers round Marengo's name And gilded thy decline, Through the long twilight of all time, Despite some pa.s.sing clouds of crime.

XVIII.

But thou forsooth must be a King And don the purple vest, As if that foolish robe could wring Remembrance from thy breast.

Where is that faded garment? where[ix]

The gewgaws thou wert fond to wear, The star, the string, the crest?[iy][263]

Vain froward child of Empire! say, Are all thy playthings s.n.a.t.c.hed away?

XIX.

Where may the wearied eye repose[iz]

When gazing on the Great; Where neither guilty glory glows, Nor despicable state?

Yes--One--the first--the last--the best-- The Cincinnatus of the West, Whom Envy dared not hate, Bequeathed the name of Washington, To make man blush there was but one![ja][264]

FOOTNOTES:

[240] {301} [ODE TO NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE. By----London: Printed for J.

Murray, Albemarle Street, By W. Bulmer and Co. Cleveland-Row, St.

James's, 1814.--_First Proof, t.i.tle-page_.]

[241] [The quotation from Juvenal was added in Second Proof.

"Produce the urn that Hannibal contains, And weigh the mighty dust which yet remains; And is This All!"

"I know not that this was ever done in the old world; at least with regard to Hannibal: but in the statistical account of Scotland, I find that Sir John Paterson had the curiosity to collect and weigh the ashes of a person discovered a few years since in the parish of Eccles....

Wonderful to relate, he found the whole did not exceed in weight one ounce and a half! And is This All? Alas! the _quot libras_ itself is a satirical exaggeration."--Gifford's _Translation of Juvenal_ (ed. 1817), ii. 26, 27.

The motto, "Expende--Quot Libras In Duce Summo Invenies," was inscribed on one side of the silver urn presented by Byron to Walter Scott in April, 1815. (See _Letters_, 1899, iii. 414, Appendix IV.)]

[242] ["I send you ... an additional motto from Gibbon, which you will find _singularly appropriate_."--Letter to Murray, April 12, 1814, _ibid._, p. 68.]

[243] {305} ["I don't know--but I think _I_, even _I_ (an insect compared with this creature), have set my life on casts not a millionth part of this man's. But, after all, a crown may not be worth dying for.

Yet, to outlive _Lodi_ for this!!! Oh that Juvenal or Johnson could rise from the dead! 'Expende--quot libras in duce summo invenies?' I knew they were light in the balance of mortality; but I thought their living dust weighed more _carats_. Alas! this imperial diamond hath a flaw in it, and is now hardly fit to stick in a glazier's pencil;--the pen of the historian won't rate it worth a ducat. Psha! 'something too much of this.' But I won't give him up even now; though all his admirers have, 'like the thanes, fallen from him.'"--_Journal_, April 9, 1814, _Letters_, 1898, ii. 409.]

[244] [Compare "How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning!"--_Isaiah_ xiv. 12.]