Where are the friends of former years,
The old original hussars?
Where is the chief who ruled his peers,
My boon companions of the wars?

Veterans, I remember all,
How you grew mellow without stint,
Your places round the fire recall,
And noses of a purple tint,

The soldiers' caps thrown lightly back,
The jackets reaching to your knees,
Sabres, and sabretaches slack,
The hay whereon you lay at ease.

Holding black pipes between your teeth,
You spare your speech; the smoke ascends
Or, choosing tortuous paths beneath
Your muffled coats, its way extends.

No single word, much columned smoke;
None stirs, and all to silence keep;
Each drinks and, wrapped within his cloak,
Stretches and quickly goes to sleep.

Scarecely appears the break of day,
Ere each is scudding o'er the field,
With cap askew in brave display,
Lets his pelisse to breezes yield.

His steed is quivering with delight,
His sabre whistles, cleaves a foe;
With battle done, his appetite
Demands a chance itself to show.

But what distresses now my view?
Fear rules hussars of modish shape,
Ill-uniformed, in high boots new,
They pirouette and work escape.

They sagely speak, wiseacres look,
Believe the tought of  love absurd;
They like Jomini and his book,
Concerning vodka say no word.

Where are my friends of former years,
The real, superlative hussars?
Where is the chief who ruled his peers,
My boon companions of the wars?

Under the shade of foreign skies,
The master of fierce warlike arts,
In stifling exile, by his sighs
Softens the ire of conquered hearts.
And, if a northern sail excites
His mind beside his prison door,
The lonely outcast clearly writes
A peaceful word on that far shore.

Thence, he looks forth across the deep,
And captive hears the clashing sword,
Sees icy fields where brave men sleep,
Or France the beautiful, adored;
And, in his wilderness at times,
Seeking from woes to gain relief,
Views, through a veil of martial crimes,
His dearest son with bitter grief.

Let them be overcome with shame
Whose petty-minded souls have owned
A wish to overwhelm with blame
The shade of one from might dethroned!
Nay, praise the sacrificial priest
Who showed our folk their destiny
And, from his isle, the thought released
Of endless world-wide liberty!

[This poem, with the exception of four censored stanzas,
was printed in 1821, the year of Napoleon's death.]

Granddad, came any good at last,
When stricken Moscow's burning vast
     Drove the French host away?
Or then occurred incessant fights
And endless dreadful days and nights?
Russia assuredly delights
     In Borodino's day!

Yes, there were many in my time
Who, in their youth, or manhood's prime,
     Were heroes of that field!
To suffer was our common lot,
Few, that arrived, e'er left the spot,
What might have been for us was not:
     We would not Moscow yield.

We had continued the retreat
And as we hoped the French to beat,
     We chafed and muttered threats.
Though Frenchmen dared our land invade,
We'd never flee from them dismayed,
The foe would soon become afraid
     Of Russiasn bayonets!

We found in time a glorious field,
There we drew up, our might revealed,
     And built a great redoubt.
O, we rejoiced at what was done!
We took our place beside each gun,
Hardly had seen the rising sun
     Before the French were out.

I loaded from the cannon's end
And thought: I'll now salute a friend,
     M'sieu and brother, stay!
To be heroic through it all
Until my head should stop a ball,
I could but try to break the wall,
     And bring the foe to bay.

Two days are spent in musket fire,
And then such trifling sees us tire,
     For greater things we pray.
On every side a call was heard,
"Now for the grape," arose the word;
The shadows of the night had blurred
     The horrors of the day.

I gently dozed beside my gun,
Yet heard the French, before they won,
     Cheer in a manner rash.
We in our bivouac kept still;
One cleaned his shako with a will,
Made sure his bayonet would kill,
     Gnawed at his long moustache.

As soon as came the morning light,
Line after line apprached in sight,
     And forward swift would leap.
Our colonel, ever critical,
A father seemed to one and all;
Alas, his fate 'twas there to fall,
     In the cold ground to sleep.

He spoke and looked with flashing eyes,
"Lads! Moscow's future with us lies.
     We would for Moscow fall.
Have not our brothers nobly died?"
We promised with an honest pride
And kept our oath, "To victory!" cried
     At Borodino's call.

The day had come! In serried crowds
The French advanced through smoky clouds
     And made for our redoubt.
Dragoons with horse-tails dark and slight,
And lancers with their pennons bright,
Deploying slowly into sight,
     Would put us soon to rout.

No more such combats will be seen;
The flags displayed a ghostly sheen,
     Through smoke oft pierced by fire.
Loud clashed the steel, the grape shot hissed;
The weary swordsmen would desist;
The heaps of bloody dead unmissed
     By cannon balls rose higher.

Our foes that day had truly felt
Where Russian skill and vigour dwelt,
     We fought them hand to hand.
The earth was shaking like each breast,
A thousand guns the sky addressed,
Tore horse and man together pressed
     In battle for our land.

When darkness fell our men were true,
Ready at dawn to fight anew
     And battle till the end.
Alas! the drums began to beat;
And all that liked not to retreat
Said they the foe again would meet;
     I helped a wounded friend.

Yes, there were many in my time,
Of fortitude and skill sublime,
     And heroes of that field.
To suffer was our common lot,
Few that arrived e'er left the spot,
What might have been for us was not,
     We would not Moscow yield.

NEVER Pharoah's Night,
Whereof the Hebrew wizards croon,
Did so the Theban flamens try
As me this veritable Noon.

Like blank ocean in blue calm
Undulates the ethereal frame;
In one flowing oriflamme
God flings his fiery standard out.

Battling with the Emirs fierce
Napoleon a great victory won,
Through the through his sword did pierce;
But, bayonetted by this sun
His gunners drop beneath the gun.

Holy, holy, holy Light!
Immaterial incandescence,
Of God the effluence of the essence,
Shekinah intolerably bright!

   While honouring the grape's ruby nectar,
   All sportingly, laughingly gay;
We determined -- I, Silvia, and Hector,
   To drive old dame Wisdom away.

   "O my children, take care," said the beldame,
    "Attend to these counsels of mine:
Get not tipsy! for danger is seldom
   Remote from the goblet of wine."

"With thee in his company, no man
Can err," said our wag with a wink;
"But come, thou good-natured old woman,
There's a drop in the goblet -- and drink!"

She frowned -- but her scruples soon twisting,
   Consented: -- and smilingly said:
   "So polite -- there's indeed no resisting,
   For Wisdom was never ill-bred."

She drank but continued her teaching:
   "Let the wise from indulgence refrain;"
And never gave over her preaching,
   But to say, "Fill the goblet again."

And she drank, and she totter'd, but still she
   Was talking and shaking her head:
Muttered "temperance" -- "prudence" -- until she
   Was carried by Folly* to bed.


(*Note:  Original has Love rather than Folly)

I.

'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.

II.

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 thee;
  Nor till thy fall could mortals guess
Ambition's less than littleness!

III.

Thanks for that lesson -- It will teach
  To after-warriors more,
Than high Philosophy can preach,
  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.

IV.

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 seem'd made but to obey,
  Wherewith renown was rife --
All quell'd! -- Dark Spirit! what must be
The madness of thy memory!

V.

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,
  Dream'd not of the rebound:
Chain'd by the trunk he vainly broke --
  Alone -- how look'd 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 prowler's 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 abandon'd 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 bow'd the trembling limb,
  And thank'd 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?

XII.

Weigh'd in the balance, hero dust
  Is vile as vulgar clay;
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.

XIII.

And she, proud Austria's mournful flower,
  Thy still imperial bride;
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 vanish'd diadem!

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!
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.

XV.

Thou Timour! in his captive's cage
  What thought will there be thine,
While brooding in thy prison'd rage?
  But one -- "The word was mine!"
Unless, like he of Babylon,
All sense is with thy sceptre gone,
  Life will not long confine
That spirit pour'd so widely forth--
So long obey'd -- so little worth!

XVI.

Or, like the thief of fire from heaven,
  Wilt thou withstand the shock?
And share with him, the unforgiven,
  His vulture and his rock!
Foredoom'd 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!

XVII.

There was a day -- there was an hour,
  While earth was Gaul's -- Gaul thine --
When that immeasurable power
  Unsated to resign
Had been an act of purer fame
Than gathers round Marengo's name,
  And gilded thy decline,
Through the long twilight of all time,
Despite some passing clouds of crime.

XVIII.

But thou forsooth must be a king,
  And don the purple vest,
As if that foolish robe could wring
  Remembrance from thy breast.
Where is that faded garment? where
The gewgaws thou wert found to wear,
  The star, the string, the crest?
Vain froward child of empire! say,
Are all thy playthings snatched away?

XIX.

Where may the wearied eye repose
  When gazing on the Great;
Where neither guilty glory glows,
  Nor despicable state?
Yes -- one -- the first -- the last -- 
  the best --
The Cincinnatus of the West,
  Whom envy dared not hate,
Bequeath'd the name of Washington,
To make man blush there was but one!

ONCE fairly set out on his party of pleasure,
Taking towns at his liking, and crowns at his
  leisure,
From Elba to Lyons and Paris he goes,
Making balls for the ladies, and bows to his
  foes.

I.

WE do not curse thee, Waterloo!
Though Freedom's blood thy plain bedew;
There't was shed, but is not sunk --
Rising from each gory trunk,
Like the water-spout from ocean,
With a strong and growing motion --
It soars, and mingles in the air,
With that of lost Labedoyère --
With that of him whose honour'd grave
Contains the "bravest of the brave."
A crimson cloud it spreads and glows,
But shall return to whence it rose;
When 'tis full 'twill bust asunder --
Never yet was heard such thunder
As then shall shake the world with wonder --
Never yet was seen such lightning
As o'er heaven shall then be bright'ning!
Like the Wormwood Star foretold
By the sainted Seer of old,
Show'ring down a fiery flood,
Turning rivers into blood.

II.

The Chief has fallen, but not by you,
Vanquishers of Waterloo!
When the soldier citizen
Sway'd not o'er his fellow-men --
Save in deeds that led them on
Where Glory smiled on Freedom's son --
Who, of all the despots handed,
  With that youthful chief competed?
  Who could boast o'er France defeated,
Till lone Tyranny commanded?
Till, goaded by ambition's sting,
The Hero sunk into the King?
Then he fell: -- so perish all,
Who would men by man enthral!

III.

And thou, too, of the snow-white plume!
Whose realm refused thee ev'n a tomb;
Better hadst thou still been leading
France o'er hosts of hirelings bleeding,
Than sold thyself to death and shame
For a meanly royal name;
Such as he of Naples wears,
Who thy blood-bought title bears.
Little didst thou deem, when dashing
  On thy war-horse through the ranks,
  Like a stream which burst its banks,
While helmets cleft, and sabres clashing,
Shone and shiver'd fast around thee --
Of the fate at last which found thee:
Was that haughty plume laid low
By a slave's dishonest blow?
Once -- as the moon sways o'er the tide,
It roll'd in air, the warrior's guide;
Through the smoke-created night
Of the black and sulphurous fight,
The soldier raised his seeking eye
To catch that crest's ascendancy, --
And, as it onward rolling rose,
So moved his heart upon our foes.
There, where death's brief pang was quickest,
And the battle's wreck lay thickest,
Strew'd beneath the advancing banner
  Of the eagle's burning crest --
(There with thunder-clouds to fan her,
  Who could then her wing arrest --
  Victory beaming from her breast?)
While the broken line enlarging
  Fell, or fled along the plain;
There be sure was Murat charging!
  There he ne'er shall charge again!

IV.

O'er glories gone the invaders march,
Weeps Triumph o'er each levell'd arch --
But let Freedom rejoice,
With her heart in her voice;
But, her hand on her sword,
Doubly shall she be adored;
France hath twice too well been taught
The "moral Lesson" dearly bought --
Her safety sits not on a throne,
With Capet or Napoleon!
But in equal rights and laws,
Hearts and hands in one great cause --
Freedom, such as God hath given
Unto all beneath his heaven,
With their breath, and from their birth,
Though guilt would sweep it from the earth;
With a fierce and lavish hand
Scattering nations' wealth like sand;
Pouring nations' blood like water,
In imperial seas of slaughter!

V.

But the heart and the mind,
And the voice of mankind,
Shall arise in communion --
And who shall resist that proud union?
The time is past when swords subdued --
Many may die -- the soul's renew'd:
Even in this low world of care
Freedom ne'er shall want an heir;
Millions breathe but to inherit
Her for ever bounding spirit --
When once more her hosts assemble,
Tyrants shall believe and tremble --
Smile they at this idle threat?
Crimson tears will follow yet.

I.

MUST thou go, my glorious Chief,
  Sever'd from thy faithful few?
Who can tell thy warrior's grief,
  Maddening o'er that long adieu?
Woman's love, and friendship's zeal,
  Dear as both have been to me --
What are they to all I feel,
  With a soldier's faith for thee?

II.

Idol of the soldier's soul!
  First in fight, but mightiest now;
Many could a world control;
  Thee alone no doom can bow.
By thy side for years I dared
  Death; and envied those who fell,
When their dying shout was heard,
  Blessing him they served so well.

III.

Would that I were cold with those,
  Since this hour I live to see;
When the doubts of coward foes
  Scarce dare trust a man with thee,
Dreading each should set thee free!
  Oh! although in dungeons pent,
All their chains were light to me,
  Gazing on thy soul unbent.

IV.

Would the sycophants of him
  Now so deaf to duty's prayer,
Were his borrow'd glories dim,
  In his native darkness share?
Were that world this hour his own,
  All thou calmly dost resign,
Could he purchase with that throne
  Hearts like those which still are thine?

V.

My chief, my king, my friend, adieu!
  Never did I droop before;
Never to my sovereign sue,
  As his foes I now implore:
All I ask is to divide
  Every peril he must brave;
Sharing by the hero's side
  His fall, his exile, and his grave.

STAR of the brave! -- whose beam hath shed
Such glory o'er the quick and dead --
Thou radiant and adored deceit!
Which millions rush'd in arms to greet,
Wild meteor of immortal birth;
Why rise in Heaven to set on Earth?

Souls of slain heroes form'd thy rays;
Eternity flash'd through thy blaze;
The music of thy marital sphere
Was fame on high and honour here;
And thy light broke on human eyes,
Like a volcano of the skies.

Like lava roll'd thy stream of blood,
And swept down empires with its flood;
Earth rock'd beneath thee to her base,
As thou didst lighten through all space;
And the shorn Sun grew dim in air,
And set while thou wert dwelling there.

Before thee rose, and with thee grew,
A rainbow of the loveliest hue
Of three bright colours, each divine,
And fit for that celestial sign;
For Freedom's hand had blended them,
Like tints in an immortal gem.

One tint was of the sunbeam's dyes;
One, the blue depth of Seraph's eyes;
One, the pure Spirit's veil of white
Had robed in radiance of its light:
The three so mingled did beseem
The texture of a heavenly dream.

Star of the brave! thy ray is pale,
And darkness must again prevail!
But, oh thou Rainbow of the free!
Our tears and blood must flow for thee.
When thy bright promise fades away,
Our life is but a load of clay.

And Freedom hallows with her tread
The silent cities of the dead;
For beautiful in death are they
Who proudly fall in her array;
And soon, oh Goddess! may we be
For evermore with them or thee!

I.

FAREWELL, to the Land where the gloom of my Glory
Arose and o'ershadow'd the earth with her name --
She abandons me now -- but the page of her story,
The brightest or blackest, is fill'd with my fame.
I have warr'd with a world which vanquish'd me only
When the meteor of conquest allured me too far;
I have coped with the nations which dread me thus lonely,
The last single Captive to millions in war.

II.

Farewell to thee, France! when thy diadem crown'd me,
I made thee the gem and the wonder of earth,
But thy weakness decrees I should leave as I found thee,
Decay'd in thy glory, and sunk in thy worth.
Oh! for the veteran hearts that were wasted
In strife with the storm, when their battles were won --
Then the Eagle, whose gaze in that moment was blasted,
Had still soar'd with eyes fix'd on victory's sun!

III.

Farewell to thee, France! -- but when Liberty rallies
Once more in thy regions, remember me then, --
The violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys;
Though wither'd, thy tear will unfold it again --
Yet, yet, I may baffle the hosts that surround us,
And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice --
There are links which must break in the chain that has bound us,
Then turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice!