Poems (Barrett)/Crowned and Buried
Crowned and Buried.
Napoleon!—years ago, and that great word, Compact of human breath in hate and dread And exultation, skied us overhead—An atmosphere whose lightning was the sword, Scathing the cedars of the world,—drawn down In burnings, by the metal of a crown.
Napoleon! Nations, while they cursed that name, Shook at their own curse; and while others bore Its sound, as of a trumpet, on before, Brass-fronted legions justified its fame—And dying men, on trampled battle-sods, Near their last silence, uttered it for God's.
Napoleon! Sages, with high foreheads drooped, Did use it for a problem: children small Leapt up to greet it, as at manhood's call: Priests blessed it from their altars overstooped By meek-eyed Christs,—and widows with a moan Spake it, when questioned why they sate alone.
That name consumed the silence of the snows In Alpine keeping, holy and cloud-hid! The mimic eagles dared what Nature's did, And over-rushed her mountainous repose In search of eyries: and the Egyptian river Mingled the same word with its grand "For ever."
That name was shouted near the pyramidal Egyptian tombs, whose mummied habitants, Packed to humanity's significance, Motioned it back with stillness! Shouts as idle As hireling artists' work of myrrh and spice, Which swathed last glories round the Ptolemies.
The world's face changed to hear it! Kingly men Came down, in chidden babes' bewilderment, From autocratic places—each content With sprinkled ashes for anointing!—then The people laughed or wondered for the nonce, To see one throne a composite of thrones.
Napoleon! and the torrid vastitude Of India felt, in throbbings of the air, That name which scattered by disastrous blare All Europe's bound-lines,—drawn afresh in blood!Napoleon—from the Russias, west to Spain! And Austria trembled—till ye heard her chain.
And Germany was 'ware—and Italy, Oblivious of old fames—her laurel-locked, High-ghosted Caesars passing uninvoked,—Did crumble her own ruins with her knee, To serve a newer!—Ay! and Frenchmen cast A future from them, nobler than her past.
For, verily, though France augustly rose With that raised name, and did assume by such The purple of the world,—none gave so much As she, in purchase—to speak plain, in loss—Whose hands, to freedom stretched, dropped paralysed To wield a sword, or fit an undersized
King's crown to a great man's head! And though along Her Paris' streets, did float on frequent streams Of triumph, pictured or emmarbled dreams Dreamt right by genius in a world gone wrong,—No dream, of all so won, was fair to see As the lost vision of her liberty.
Napoleon! 'twas a high name lifted high! It met at last God's thunder sent to clear Our compassing and covering atmosphere, And open a clear sight, beyond the sky, Of supreme empire! this of Earth's was done—And kings crept out again to feel the sun!
The kings crept out—the peoples sate at home,—And finding the long-invocated peace A pall embroidered with worn images Of rights divine, too scant to cover doom Such as they suffered,—cursed the corn that grew Rankly, to bitter bread, on Waterloo!
A deep gloom centered in the deep repose—The nations stood up mute to count their dead—And he who owned the Name which vibrated Through silence,—trusting to his noblest foes When earth was all too grey for chivalry—Died of their mercies, mid the desert sea.
O wild St. Helen! very still she kept him With a green willow for all pyramid,— Which stirred a little if the low wind did, A little more, if pilgrims overwept him And parted the lithe boughs to see the clay Which seemed to cover his for judgment-day.
Nay! not so long!—France kept her old affection, As deeply as the sepulchre the corse, Until dilated by such love's remorse To a new angel of the resurrection, She cried, "Behold, thou England! I would have The dead whereof thou wottest, from that grave."
And England answered in the courtesy Which, ancient foes turned lovers, may befit,—"Take back thy dead! and when thou buriest it, Throw in all former strifes 'twixt thee and me." Amen, mine England! 'tis a courteous claim—But ask a little room too . . . for thy shame!
Because it was not well, it was not well, Nor tuneful with thy lofty-chanted part Among the Oceanides,—that Heart To bind and bare, and vex with vulture fell. I would, my noble England! men might seek All crimson stains upon thy breast—not cheek!
I would that hostile fleets had scarred thy bay Instead of the lone ship which waited moored Until thy princely purpose was assured, Then left a shadow—not to pass away—Not for to-night's moon, nor to-morrow's sun! Green watching hills, ye witnessed what was done!
And since it was done,—in sepulchral dust, We fain would pay back something of our debt To France, if not to honour, and forget How through much fear we falsified the trust Of a fallen foe and exile!—We return Orestes to Electra . . . in his urn!
A little urn—a little dust inside, Which once outbalanced the large earth, albeit To-day, a four-years' child might carry it, Sleek-browed and smiling "Let the burden 'bide!" Orestes to Electra!—O fair town Of Paris, how the wild tears will run down,
And run back in the chariot-marks of Time, When all the people shall come forth to meet The passive victor death-still in the street He rode through 'mid the shouting and bell-chime And martial music,—under eagles which Dyed their ensanguined beaks at Austerlitz!
Napoleon! he hath come again—borne home Upon the popular ebbing heart,—a sea Which gathers its own wrecks perpetually, Majestically moaning. Give him room!—Room for the dead in Paris! welcome solemn And grave-deep, 'neath the cannon-moulded column![1]
There, weapon spent and warrior spent may rest From roar of fields! provided Jupiter Dare trust Saturnus to lie down so near His bolts!—And this he may! For, dispossessed Of any godship, lies the godlike arm—The goat, Jove sucked, as likely to do harm!
And yet . . . Napoleon!—the recovered name Shakes the old casements of the world! and we Look out upon the passing pageantry, Attesting that the Dead makes good his claim To a Gaul grave,—another kingdom won—The last—of few spans—by Napoleon!
Blood fell like dew beneath his sunrise—sooth! But glittered dew-like in the covenanted And high-rayed light. He was a tyrant—granted! But the αυτος of his autocratic mouth Said yea i' the people's French! he magnified The image of the freedom he denied.
And if they asked for rights, he made reply, "Ye have my glory!"—and so, drawing round them His ample purple, glorified and hound them In an embrace that seemed identity. He ruled them like a tyrant—true! but none Were ruled like slaves! Each felt Napoleon!
I do not praise this man: the man was flawed, For Adam—much more, Christ!—his knee, unbent—His hand, unclean—his aspiration, pent Within a sword-sweep—pshaw!—but since he had The genius to be loved, why, let him have The justice to be honoured in his grave.
I think this nation's tears, poured thus together, Nobler than shouts! I think this funeral Grander than crownings, though a Pope bless all: I think this grave stronger than thrones! But whether The crowned Napoleon or the buried clay Be better, I discern not—Angels may.
- ↑ It was the first intention to bury him under the column.