LINES
ADDRESSED TO AN OLD SOLDIER OF NAPOLEON, ON SEEING HIM WEEP WHILE LISTENING TO "BONAPARTE'S MARCH OF RETREAT."
J.C.D.
What vision of the past is thine,
In bleeding Memory's cup,
That thus one simple strain should call
Its bitterness all up,
In form as palpable as light
Upon the eastern sky,
As well defined as penciled lines
Unto the artist's eye?
In bleeding Memory's cup,
That thus one simple strain should call
Its bitterness all up,
In form as palpable as light
Upon the eastern sky,
As well defined as penciled lines
Unto the artist's eye?
Think'st thou of him, the idolized,
That thus the tear-drops start?
Think'st thou of him, the worshiped one
In every soldier's heart?
One throne he built dissolved as ice
Before a fiery flame;
But one endureth evermore,
While France repeats his name!
That thus the tear-drops start?
Think'st thou of him, the worshiped one
In every soldier's heart?
One throne he built dissolved as ice
Before a fiery flame;
But one endureth evermore,
While France repeats his name!
