V.[248]

The Desolator desolate! The Victor overthrown! The Arbiter of others' fate A Suppliant for his own! Is it some yet imperial hope That with such change can calmly cope? Or dread of death alone? To die a Prince--or live a slave-- Thy choice is most ignobly brave!

VI.

He who of old would rend the oak, Dreamed not of the rebound; Chained by the trunk he vainly broke-- Alone--how looked he round? Thou, in the sternness of thy strength, An equal deed hast done at length. And darker fate hast found: He fell, the forest prowlers' prey; But thou must eat thy heart away!

VII.

The Roman, when his burning heart Was slaked with blood of Rome, Threw down the dagger--dared depart, In savage grandeur, home.-- He dared depart in utter scorn Of men that such a yoke had borne, Yet left him such a doom! His only glory was that hour Of self-upheld abandoned power.

VIII.

The Spaniard, when the lust of sway Had lost its quickening spell, Cast crowns for rosaries away, An empire for a cell; A strict accountant of his beads, A subtle disputant on creeds, His dotage trifled well: Yet better had he neither known A bigot's shrine, nor despot's throne.

IX.

But thou--from thy reluctant hand The thunderbolt is wrung-- Too late thou leav'st the high command To which thy weakness clung; 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;

X.

And Earth hath spilt her blood for him, Who thus can hoard his own! And Monarchs bowed the trembling limb, And thanked him for a throne! Fair Freedom! we may hold thee dear, When thus thy mightiest foes their fear In humblest guise have shown. Oh! ne'er may tyrant leave behind A brighter name to lure mankind!

XI.

Thine evil deeds are writ in gore, Nor written thus in vain-- Thy triumphs tell of fame no more, Or deepen every stain: If thou hadst died as Honour dies, Some new Napoleon might arise, To shame the world again-- But who would soar the solar height, To set in such a starless night?[ip]

XII.

Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust Is vile as vulgar clay;[iq] Thy scales, Mortality! are just To all that pass away: But yet methought the living great Some higher sparks should animate, To dazzle and dismay: Nor deem'd Contempt could thus make mirth Of these, the Conquerors of the earth.