Classic Poem

  Nap. The good of France and mine are mixed. I am,
The leaf of laurel on her tree—no more:
One of her sons. I stand, indeed, the First,
Because Necessity will have a man
To front the aspect of alarming times.
Still am I one o' the people. I claim not
A line stretched backwards beyond Nimrod's reign;
Nor call on Cæsar, or Semiramis,
To answer for a weak or daring son.
I am—myself; the first,—perhaps the last
Of all my race who won or wore a crown.
Yet have I ambition still; for I would feel
My soldiers' tears raining upon my grave;
And have, on lasting brass, my nobler deeds
Thus written:—“ Here lies Napoleon, Emperor;
Who rose by courage, and the people's will,
Up to a throne:—He won a hundred battles,—
At Arcola, at Rivoli, at Marengo,
At Austerlitz, at Jena, and by the snows
Of Moscow, and the Lybian pyramids:
He cut (like Hannibal) the white Alps through.
Learning he raised; built public roads and fountains;
And made one equal Law for all the land.”