And when the Nations, in their pigmy might,
Provoked the Lion to engage in fight,
With gory jaw, he rent their legions strong,
And left them bleaching the wide earth along. 
Fair France’s Eagle was Napoleon! he
Soared thro’ her sky, a monarch proud and free: 
And when the boy-like kingdoms thought to bring
The glorious soarer down with bleeding wing,
With swift, fierce swoop, he darted from on high,
And the rent pigmies, shrieked with mighty cry.

Vain were their wishes, all their envy vain,
They could not bring the soarer to the plain;—­
Till Fate’s fell arrow—­surer than the rest—­
Winged the far flight, and pierced his glorious breast. 
Then fell Napoleon, Eagle of his clime,
By Fate’s fell shaft, from yon proud heaven sublime: 
And when he fell, France knew no keener woe,
Then the deep piercing of that mortal blow. 
The sweet land drooped, and sickened in her grief—­
That hope so happy, had given truth so brief—­
That Fate’s fell shaft her glorious Bird had slain,
No more o’er conquered earth to soar again.

But not at once Napoleon breathes his last—­
More woes must come—­if now the worst be past. 
Napoleon’s star, declining on his eye,
Tells France shall yield him not a place to die. 
That he must hie him to an alien shore,
And see his France, and blue-eyed boy no more. 
The noble Lion must be chained at length,
By Fate’s strong force, though not by man’s weak strength. 
But, harmless now, that meaner things shall prey
On whom they fled from, in his Glory’s day. 
Oh! when the Chieftain turned to wave adieu
To lovely France, across the waters blue,
The iron man who never quailed in war,
Where Death’s conspiring darts flew fast and far—­
If peering Envy marked no gushing tear—­
Wept, wept to leave the land that was so dear—­
And if that woe was mute—­it was more deep,
As deepest floods, in silent caverns sleep.

But who are they to whose exalted name,
He turns for friendship in his fall’s deep shame? 
What flattered enemy may gladly prove,
A fallen Hater yet may know her love? 
Britannia! in this latest deep distress,
Napoleon’s fate thou now mayest surely bless,
Attest thy greatness to a fallen foe,
And make thy fame sublime o’er all below.

Lo! on yon dreary isle, yon desolate rock,
That quails beneath old ocean’s ceaseless shock—­
Where flaming suns and sudden ruins combine,
Fo waste and wreck the human form divine—­
Where man cut off from all most dear to man,
Makes hopeless exile, happy if he can:—­
Then say; Britannia! that thy nobleness
Deigns thy asylum to thy foe’s distress? 
Say, this the Glory which thou lov’st to boast,
O’er meaner dwellers of each neighboring coast?

Contracted nation! thy contracted home,
A sterile rock round which the billows foam! 
How well consorts it with thy dwarfish soul,
That owns no noble feeling’s high control.