Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte [by lord Byron].

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John Murray, 1814 - 17 pages
 

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Page 9 - Tis done — but yesterday a King ! And arm'd with Kings to strive—- And now thou art a nameless thing ! So abject — yet alive ! Is this the man of thousand thrones, Who strew'd our Earth with hostile bones, And can he thus survive ? Since he miscall'd the Morning Star, Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far.
Page 17 - Foredoomed by God — by man accurst, And that last act, though not thy worst, The very Fiend's arch mock ! He, in his fall preserved his pride, And, if a mortal; had as proudly died!
Page 13 - The Spaniard, when the lust of sway Had lost its quickening spell, Cast crowns for rosaries away, An empire for a cell...
Page 9 - Kings to strive — And now thou art a nameless thing So abject — yet alive ! Is this the man of thousand thrones, Who strew'd our Earth with hostile bones., And can he thus survive ? .Since he, miscall'd the Morning Star, Nor man nor fiend hath fall'n so far. Ill-minded man ! why scourge thy kind Who bow'd so low the knee ? By gazing on thyself grown blind, Thou taught'st the rest to see. With might unquestion'd, — power to save— Thine only gift hath been the grave To those that worshipp'd...
Page 10 - And vainly preach'd before. That spell upon the minds of men Breaks never to unite again, That led them to adore Those Pagod things of sabre sway With fronts of brass, and feet of clay.
Page 11 - The triumph, and the vanity, The rapture of the strife — The earthquake voice of Victory, To thee the breath of life; The sword, the sceptre, and that sway Which man seemed made but to obey, Wherewith renown was rife — All quelled!
Page 13 - All Evil Spirit as thou art, It is enough to grieve the heart. To see thine own unstrung ; To think that God's fair world hath been The footstool of a thing so mean ; [ 14] X.
Page 16 - It ne'er was ruled by thee! Or trace with thine all idle hand In loitering mood upon the sand That Earth is now as free! That Corinth's pedagogue hath now Transferr'd his by-word to thy brow. Thou Timour ! in his captive's cage What thoughts will there be thine. While brooding in thy prison'd rage? But one —
Page 11 - Or dread of death alone ? To die a prince— or live a slave — Thy choice is most ignobly brave...
Page 16 - 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, hoard that gem, 'Tis worth thy vanished diadem ! [16] XIV. Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle, And gaze upon the sea ; That element may meet thy smile, It ne'er was ruled by thee...

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