My Napoleon

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Above all others, everywhere I see
  His image cold or burning;
My brain it thrills, and many time sets free
  The thoughts within me yearning.
My quivering lips pour forth the words
  That cluster in his name of glory,—
The star gigantic with its ray of swords
  Whose gleams irradiate all modern story.

I see his finger pointing where the shell
  Should fall to slay most rabble
And save foul regicides, or strike the knell
  Of weaklings 'mid the tribunes' babble.
A consul then, o'er young but proud,
  With midnight poring thinned and sallow;
But dreams of empire pierce the transient cloud,
  And round pale face and lank locks form the halo.

And soon the Caesar, with an eye a-flame,
  Whole nations' contact urging
To gain his soldiers gold and flame!
  O Sun on high emerging,
Whose dazzling lustre fired the hells
  Embosomed in grim bronze, which, free, rose
To change five hundred thousand base-born Tells
  Into his host of half-million heroes!

What! next a captive? Yea, and caged apart.
  No weight of arms enfolded
Can crush the turmoil in that seething heart
  Which Nature—not her journeymen—self moulded.
Let sordid jailers vex their prize;
  But only bends that blow to lightning,
As gazing from the seaward rock, his sighs
  Cleave through the storm and haste where France lay bright'ning.

Alone, but greater! True, the sceptre's broke,
  Yet lingers still some power.
In tears of woe man's metal may revoke
  In temper of high hour;
For, baiting breath, e'er list the kings,—
  The pinion clipped may grow! the eagle
May burst in frantic thirst for home the rings,
  And rend the Bulldog, Fox and Bear, and Beagle!

And, lastly, grandest! 'tween dark sea and here
  Eternal brightness coming!
The eye so weary's freshened with a tear
  As rises distant drumming
And wailing cheer—they pass the pale:
  His army mourns, though still's the end hid;
And from his war-stained cloak, he answers, "Hail!
  And spurns the bed of gloom for throne aye splendid!

© Victor Marie Hugo