That hand, that with its shaping force
Had moulded empires at its will,
Or stayed at flood the people's course,
Or tempests hushed with, " Peace, be still " ,

That hand that over Lodi's bridge
Cleft through the leaden storm a path,
And on the Alpine summit's ridge
Defied the eternal ice king's wrath, —

That hand now pats his horse's mane
As on he rideth through the town:
The people's shout breaks out again,
But at his horse he looketh down.

So sometimes does a tempest hush,
When it has had its stormy hour.
To whisper with a wayside bush
Or lovingly caress a flower.

That hand, that shook a continent,
That Europe bent beneath its sway,
In lone St. Helen's discontent
It wiped an Emperor's tear away.