reign,
    That hour like remorse must weigh
  On each French brow,—­’tis the eternal stain,
    Which only death can wash away! 
  I saw, where palace-walls gave shade and ease,
    The wagons of the foreign force;
  I saw them strip the bark which clothed our trees,
    To cast it to their hungry horse. 
  I saw the Northman, with his savage lip,
    Bruising our flesh till black with gore,
  Our bread devour,—­on our nostrils sip
    The air which was our own before!

  In the abasement and the pain,—­the weight
    Of outrages no words make known,—­
  I charged one only being with my hate: 
    Be thou accursed, Napoleon!
  O lank-haired Corsican, your France was fair,
    In the full sun of Messidor! 
  She was a tameless and a rebel mare,
    Nor steel bit nor gold rein she bore;
  Wild steed with rustic flank;—­yet, while she trod,—­
    Reeking with blood of royalty,
  But proud with strong foot striking the old sod,
    At last, and for the first time, free,—­
  Never a hand, her virgin form passed o’er,
    Left blemish nor affront essayed;
  And never her broad sides the saddle bore,
    Nor harness by the stranger made. 
  A noble vagrant,—­with coat smooth and bright,
    And nostril red, and action proud,—­
  As high she reared, she did the world affright
    With neighings which rang long and loud. 
  You came; her mighty loins, her paces scanned,
    Pliant and eager for the track;
  Hot Centaur, twisting in her mane your hand,
    You sprang all booted to her back. 
  Then, as she loved the war’s exciting sound,
    The smell of powder and the drum,
  You gave her Earth for exercising ground,
    Bade Battles as her pastimes come! 
  Then, no repose for her,—­no nights, no sleep! 
    The air and toil for evermore! 
  And human forms like unto sand crushed deep,
    And blood which rose her chest before! 
  Through fifteen years her hard hoofs’ rapid course
    So ground the generations,
  And she passed smoking in her speed and force
    Over the breast of nations;
  Till,—­tired in ne’er earned goal to place vain trust,
    To tread a path ne’er left behind,
  To knead the universe and like a dust
    To uplift scattered human kind,—­
  Feebly and worn, and gasping as she trode,
    Stumbling each step of her career,
  She craved for rest the Corsican who rode. 
    But, torturer! you would not hear;
  You pressed her harder with your nervous thigh,
    You tightened more the goading bit,
  Choked in her foaming mouth her frantic cry,
    And brake her teeth in fury-fit. 
  She rose,—­but the strife came.  From farther fall
    Saved not the curb she could not know,—­
  She went down, pillowed on the cannon-ball,
    And thou wert broken by the blow!