Le cinq Mai

The bark was Spanish; homeward was I borne,
From far-off coast where I had roamed forlorn;
Wreck of an Empire in its fall sublime,
Hiding my griefs in India's burning clime
But the Cape's past; five years have flown away;
Time and fresh scenes once more have made me gay —
France, poor old soldier, on my view shall rise;
And a son's hand in death shall close mine eyes.

" Land! " shouts the watch — " St Helena! " yes, there,
Ye gods, the Hero mourns in dumb despair:
That isle, brave Spaniards, has subdued your hate —
Come, curse with us his jailers and his fate!
Nought for his freedom, nought, alas, can I;
Nor in these days a glorious death can die!
France, poor old soldier, on my view shall rise;
And a son's hand in death shall close mine eyes.

Perchance he slumbers — war's resistless shell,
That thrones by scores aye shivered where it fell:
Can he not now, aroused in fearful ire,
Burst on the brows of monarchs — and expire?
Nay, Hope recoils before that rock; nor there
Jove's secret councils may the Eagle share!
France, poor old soldier, on my view shall rise;
And a son's hand in death shall close mine eyes.

Treading his footsteps, Victory spent her force;
She flagged — he recked not — onward still his course
Betrayed — ay, twice, the Hero bides his fate;
But, oh! what serpents on his pathway wait:
Poison from laurels is distilled, we know;
The Conqueror's crown Death only can bestow!
France, poor old soldier, on my view shall rise;
And a son's hand in death shall close mine eyes.

Let but a wandering bark be signalled nigh,
" Ha! is it he; " the trembling Princes cry,
" Come, o'er the world to re-assert his sway?
Quick! men-at-arms, by millions we'll array "
And he, bowed down with pain and grief, perchance,
Is breathing here his farewell vows for France!
France, poor old soldier, on my view shall rise;
And a son's hand in death shall close mine eyes.

Lofty in mind, in genius lofty, why,
Why on a sceptre stooped he to rely?
Towering above the thrones of Earth, it seemed
From this bare rock as though his glory beamed:
A world that's new — a world that's all too old —
Both, like a light-house, might its rays behold
France, poor old soldier, on my view shall rise;
And a son's hand in death shall close mine eyes.

But look, good Spaniards! on the cliffs appear
Colors half-mast — Heavens, how I quake with fear!
What, he, to die! nay, widowed then art thou,
O Glory — mark, his foes are weeping now!
Silent we speed from that drear isle afar —
Blotted from Heaven is Day's own chosen star!
France, poor old soldier, on my view shall rise;
And a son's hand in death shall close mine eyes.