Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Prisoner of St. Helena

The Prisoner of St. Helena.

 Perched on a rock and caged afarFrom Europe's peace, or Europe's war,Left to myself, to groan and smart,But gifted with a marble heart;I still can live—and free from pain,Dream all my battles o'er again.Walk in the sun, and breathe the air,Enjoy my bed and daily fare.And having won and lost the earth,Reflect how little it is worth.

 You drivelling, wretched rascal race,Who gravely struts upon its face,Ye shallow dolts, and half-bred knaves,Who for a time have been my slaves,I have not grudged to make you bleed,Nor spared the thinning of your breed.Soon sprout up tares to fill the ground;The wheat, alas! I've seldom found;And if amongst you any grew,'Tis better mown than mixed with you.

 To scourge your tribes I ne'er refused,But man was all the scourge I used;The hope of plunder manned my line,And your ambition pimped for mine.No kingdom did I overthrow,But would have served its neighbour so;For peace no canting monarch sued,But would have swaggered if he could;And that proud isle across the sea,Wished, in her heart, to rule like me.

 Then fare you well! I scorn your hate,Nor fear, nor care, for Europe's prate;But men shall read in after days,Who shook her gimcracks to the base,Alone I did it!—for I rose,From nothing, against sceptred foes.