Walter Scott - BonaparteWalter Scott - Bonaparte
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From a rude isle, his ruder lineage came.
The spark, that, from a suburb hovel`s hearth
Ascending, wraps some capital in flame,
Hath not a meaner or more sordid birth.
And for the soul that bade him waste the earth—
The sable land-flood from some swamp obscure,
That poisons the glad husband-field with dearth,
And by destruction bids its fame endure,
Hath not a source more sullen, stagnant, and impure.
Before that Leader strode a shadowy form,
Her limbs like mist, her torch like meteor shew`d;
With which she beckon`d him through fight and storm,
And all he crush`d that cross`d his desp`rate road,
Nor thought, nor fear`d, nor look`d on what he trode;
Realms could not glut his pride, blood not slake,
So oft as e`er she shook her torch abroad—
It was Ambition bade his terrors wake;
Nor deign`d she, as of yore, a milder form to take.
No longer now she spurn`d at mean revenge,
Or stay`d her hand for conquer`d freeman`s moan,
As when, the fates of aged Rome to change,
By Caesar`s side she cross`d the Rubicon;
Nor joy`d she to bestow the spoils she won,
As when the banded Powers of Greece were task`d
To war beneath the Youth of Macedon:
No seemly veil her modern minion ask`d,
He saw her hideous face, and lov`d the fiend unmask`d.
That Prelate mark`d his march—On banners blaz`d
With battles won in many a distant land.
On eagle standards and on arms he gaz`d;
"And hop`st thou, then," he said, "thy power shall stand?
O! thou hast builded on the shifting sand,
And thou hast temper`d it with slaughter`s flood;
And know, fell scourge in the Almighty`s hand,
Gore-moisten`d trees shall perish in the bud,
And, by a bloody death, shall die the Man of Blood."
The ruthless Leader beckon`d from his train
A wan, paternal shade, and bade him kneel,
And pale his temples with the Crown of Spain,
While trumpets rang, and Heralds cried, "Castile!"
Not that he lov`d him—No!—in no man`s weal,
Scarce in his own, e`er joy`d that sullen heart;
Yet round that throne he bade his warriors wheel,
That the poor puppet might perform his part,
And be a scepter`d slave, at his stern beck to start.
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