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 1871 
 
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 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 CALIFORNIA 
 
 SAN DIEGO 
 
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 NAPOLEON FALLEN
 
 NAPOLEON FALLEN 
 
 21 Ssrif"'*' ?>"-ii";' 
 
 By ROBERT BUCHANAN 
 
 STRAHAN & CO., PUBLISHERS 
 
 56 LUDGATI-: HILL. LONDON 
 
 1871
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED BY VIRTUE AND CO. 
 
 CITY ROAD.
 
 TO THE PROPHETS AND MARTYRS. 
 
 O Prophets I that look forward, searching slow 
 The future time for signs, what see ye there ? 
 
 What far-off gleams of portent come and go ? 
 
 On what, with lips like quivering leaves, and hair 
 Back-blowing in the whirlwind, do ye stare 
 
 So steadfast and so still ? O speak, and tell — 
 
 Is the Soul safe ? Shall the sick world be well ? 
 Will morning glimmer soon, and all be fair ? 
 
 Martyrs ! all ye see this day is sad, 
 
 And in your eyes there swim the fatal tears, 
 But on your brows the Dawn gleams cold and hoar. 
 
 1 too gaze forward, and my heart grows glad — 
 
 I catch the comfort of the golden years — 
 I see the Soul is safe for evermore.
 
 PREFATORY NOTE. 
 
 In reading this Napoleonic Play, or Lyrical 
 Drama, or Dramatic Poem (I know not which 
 is the fit title , it should be remembered 
 that we lack as yet the proper foreground 
 for the contemplation of the chief character. 
 Fortunately, the subject, if treated with any 
 ordinary skill, will be always gaining instead 
 of losing that artistic distance which many 
 think so necessary; while, on the other hand, 
 it is likely to secure certain elements of real 
 strength from the mere fact of its being based 
 on contemporary events. Of course, it is 
 more than ordinarily open to abuse, for ardent 
 politicians who would let me have my own
 
 VIU PREFATORY NOTE. 
 
 way with Tiberius or Peter the Great, or even 
 Bonaparte, are certain to rate me roundly if I 
 disagree with them about Louis Napoleon. 
 
 The man who here soliloquises may not be 
 the real Napoleon, but I believe there is some 
 justification for my portrait. After all, truth 
 is one thing, and dramatic truth is another. 
 If my play possess verisimilitude, no critic 
 has a right to object to it because he himself 
 would have conceived the chief character 
 differently. 
 
 One final word. I desire to say that I have 
 nowhere in the following pages expressed my 
 own political opinions. 
 
 Robert Buchanan.
 
 NAPOLEON FALLEN 
 
 OVK oi*6' I'lTTuK at <^u> PtfiovX(v<r6ai xaXiut' 
 KptiiTCbiV yap rjaOa ^itjkct wv if ^wf tv^Xo^. 
 
 • • • • 
 
 <ai ya/> a KpanjO'at oi' (TOi Tu fiCif ^UfccTTrcTO. 
 
 Soph. CEd. 'Ivk.
 
 SPEAKERS. 
 
 Napoleon III. of France. 
 
 An Officer of the Imperial Staff. 
 
 A Roman Catholic Bishop. 
 
 A Physician. 
 
 Messengers. 
 
 First German Citizen. 
 
 Second German Citizen. 
 
 German Citizen's Wife. 
 
 Chorus of Republicans. 
 
 Chorus of Spirits. 
 
 Scene — The Chateau of Wilhelmshohe, in Cassel. 
 Time — 1870, shortly after the surrender of Sedan. 
 
 *,• There are certain obvious anachronisms in time. That 
 the news of the fall of Rome and the proclamation of the 
 French republic, only reaches Wilhelmshohe about the same 
 time as the news of the environment of Paris, is a dramatic 
 expedient, necessary to the action of the drama, which begins at 
 sunset and ends bte the same night.
 
 ERRATA. 
 
 Page 49, last line but one, yb/- "Wcissemberg," naJ '•\\\\~- 
 senburg." 
 
 Page 51, line i, read 
 
 " While Trochu, from the presidential scat," 
 
 While russet trees to left and right 
 Snaring the rosy shafts of light 
 Shade them to silver, till they glow 
 There on the roof of the chateau 
 Gleaming bright ruby ! 
 
 B 
 
 ///.
 
 Scc/ic—TiiE Chateau of Wilhelmshohe, 
 IN Cassel. 
 
 German Citizens wal/cing in tJic Gardens 7C'it/iout. 
 
 First Citizen. 
 
 How fine it is to lounge in talk 
 Together, down this long green walk : 
 While russet trees to left and right 
 Snaring the rosy shafts of light 
 Shade them to silver, till they glow 
 There on the roof of the chateau 
 Gleaming bright ruby ! 
 
 B
 
 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 
 
 Second Citizen. 
 
 Not too near- 
 The place is private. 
 
 First Citizen. 
 
 Didst thou hear 
 The news ? Another glorious blow 
 For Fatherland ! 
 
 Second Citizen. 
 
 To-night at five 
 I saw the courier arrive, 
 Bringing the news to him who waits 
 Yonder.— O he may thank the fates 
 He sits so snug, the man of sin !—
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 
 
 How cunningly, before the end, 
 
 The Snake contrived to save his skin ! 
 
 First Citizen. 
 
 Thou art too hard upon him, friend. 
 He saw that all his cards were played, 
 And so, to save more bloodshed, strayed 
 Into the cage. 
 
 Second Citizen. 
 
 A cage, indeed ! 
 Where from a gold plate he may feed 
 Of all earth's dainties, while afar 
 France, 'neath the tramping feet of War, 
 Bleeds like a winepress. There he lolls, 
 Butcher of bodies and of souls. 
 Smiling, and sees the storm blow by !
 
 NAPOLEON FALLEN 
 
 First Citizen. 
 What could he do ? 
 
 Second Citizen. 
 
 Could he not die r 
 
 First Citizen. 
 
 Die r Sentiment ! If I were he 
 I'd bless the stars which set me free 
 From that foul-hearted Whore's embrace, 
 France, with her fickle painted face. 
 Better in Germany to dine, 
 Smoke one's cigar, and sip one's wine ; 
 And in good time, like most, no doubt, 
 Who have worn their wicked members out. 
 Repent, and be absolved, and then 
 Die in one's bed, like smaller men !
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. C 
 
 Second Citizen. 
 Thou cynic ! 
 
 First Citizen's Wife. 
 
 Dost thou think that he 
 Is happy r 
 
 First Citizen. 
 
 Why not ? . . Possibly, 
 My dear, 'tis something after all 
 To know the worst that can befall ; 
 To know, whatever joy or sorrow 
 Fate is preparing for the morrow, 
 It cannot make more dark the lot 
 One bears to-night. Happy ! Why not ? 
 Happy as most of our poor kind.
 
 NAPOLEON fallen: 
 
 Wife. 
 He has so much upon his mind ! 
 
 First Citizen. 
 
 A woman's thought ; — but hark to me, 
 
 And take this for philosophy — 
 
 Beyond a given amount of pain, 
 
 The spirit suffers not a grain. 
 
 What stuff we humble folk are taught 
 
 Of monarchs and their weight of thought ! 
 
 Why, thou and I, and Jack and Jill, 
 
 Feel just as much of good and ill. 
 
 Of life and strife, of thought and care. 
 
 As he who sitteth musing there ! 
 
 Second Citizen. 
 
 I saw him walking, yesterday. 
 
 He is much aged of late, they say —
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 
 
 He Stoops much, and his features are 
 Gray like the ash of the cigar 
 He smokes for ever. 
 
 First Citizen [fo Wife). 
 
 Come, my dear, 
 Let's home ! 'Tis growing chilly here ; 
 So ! — take my arm. Yes, I contend 
 It matters little in the end 
 If one be beggar, priest, or king — 
 The whip's for all — the pang, the sting ! 
 Dost thou remember — canst forget ? 
 WTien all our goods were seized for debt. 
 In Friedberg ? Claim was heap'd on claim — 
 Blow came on blow — shame follow'd shame ; 
 And last, to crown our dire distress, 
 Thy brother Hans' hard-heartedness. 
 Think you / felt a whit less sad, 
 Less thunderstruck, less fierce, less mad,
 
 8 NAPOLEON fallen: 
 
 Than yonder melancholy Man, 
 
 AVhen, through the dark cloud of Sedan, 
 
 He, as a star that shoots by night. 
 
 Swept from his sphere of lonely light. 
 
 And at the feet of Wilhelm lay 
 
 Glow-worm-like, in the garish day 
 
 Of conquest ? "Well, well ! wait and see- 
 
 I rose again, and so may he. 
 
 The world is but a play, tho' ye 
 
 Dear creatures take it seriously : 
 
 I cannot pity from my heart 
 
 The player of the Monarch's part. 
 
 For at the worst he never knows 
 
 The famish'd Body's bitter throes. 
 
 I pity more -with all my soul 
 
 The filler of the Soldier's role, 
 
 Who feels the ball, and with a groan 
 
 Sinks in the bloody ranks unknown,
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 
 
 And while the far-off cannon cries, 
 Kisses his sweetheart's hair, and dies ! 
 
 [ExC2lflf. 
 
 Enter, ZL'ithin the ClidteaUy NAPOLEON and a 
 Physician. 
 
 Physician. 
 
 The sickness is no sickness of the flesh, 
 Xo ailment such as common mortals feel, 
 But spiritual ; 'tis thy fiery thought 
 Dr}'ing the wholesome humour of the veins, 
 Consuming the brain's substance, and from 
 
 thence. 
 As flame spreads, thro' each muscle, vein, 
 
 and nerve, 
 Reaching the vital members. If your High- 
 ness
 
 lO NAPOLEON FALLEN : 
 
 Could Stoop from the tense strain of great 
 
 affairs 
 To books and music, or such idle things 
 As wing the weary hours for lesser men ! 
 Turn not thine eyes to France; recfeive no 
 
 news ; 
 Shut out the blinding gleam of battle ; rest 
 From all fierce ache of thought; and for a 
 
 time 
 Let the wild world go by. 
 
 Napoleon. 
 
 Enough, old friend r 
 Thine is most wholesome counsel. I will 
 
 seek 
 To make this feverish mass of nerve and 
 
 thew, 
 This thing of fretful heart-beats.
 
 A L Y R I C A L D R A M A. I I 
 
 Fulfil its functions more mechanically. 
 Farewell. 
 
 Physician. 
 
 Farewell, Sire. Brighter waking thoughts, 
 And sweeter dreams, attend thee ! S^Exit. 
 
 Napoleon. 
 
 All things change 
 Their summer livery for the autumn tinge 
 Of wind-blown withering leaves. That man 
 
 is faithful, — 
 I have eat my life from his cold palm for 
 
 years, 
 And I believe, so strong do use and wont 
 Fetter such natures, he would die to serve 
 
 me;
 
 12 NAPOLEON FALLEN 
 
 Yet do I see in his familiar eyes 
 
 The fatal pain of pity. I have lain 
 
 At death's door divers times, and he hath 
 
 slowly, 
 With subtle cunning and most confident 
 
 skill, 
 Wooed back my breath, but never even then, 
 Tho' God's hand held me down, did he regard 
 
 me 
 With so intense a gaze as now, when smitten 
 By the mail'd hand of man. I am not dead ! 
 Not dying ! only sick, — as all are sick 
 Who feel the mortal prison-house too weak 
 For the free play of Soul ! I eat and drink — 
 I laugh — I weep, perchance — I feel — I think — 
 I still preserve all functions of a man — 
 Yet doth the free wind of the fickle world 
 Blow on me with as chilly a respect 
 As on a nameless grave. Is there so sad
 
 A L V R I C A L D R A M A. I 3 
 
 A sunset on my face, tliat all beholding 
 Think only of the morrow : — other minds, 
 Other hearts, other hands ? Almighty God, 
 If I dare pray Thee by that name of God, 
 Strengthen me ! blow upon me with Th}- 
 
 breath ! 
 Let one last memorable flash of fire 
 Burst from the blackening brand ! — 
 
 Yes, sick — sick — sick ; 
 Sick of the world ; sick of the fitful fools 
 That I have played with ; sick, forsooth, of 
 
 breath. 
 Of thought, of hope, of Time. I staked my 
 
 Soul 
 Against a Crown, and won. I wore the 
 
 Crown, 
 And 'twas of burning fire. I staked my 
 
 Crown
 
 r4 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 
 
 Against a Continent, and lost. I am here ; 
 Fallen, unking' d, the shadow of a power. 
 Yet not heart-broken — no, not heart-broken — 
 But surely with more equable a pulse 
 Than when I sat on yonder lonely Seat 
 Fishing for wretched souls, and for my sport, 
 Although the bait was glorious gifts of earth. 
 Hooking the basest only. I am nearer 
 To the world's heart than then : 'tis bitter 
 
 bread. 
 Most bitter, yea, most bitter ; yet I eat 
 More freely, and sleep safer. I could die 
 
 now: 
 And yet I dare not die. 
 
 Maker of men ! 
 Thou Wind before whose strange breath we 
 
 are clouds 
 Driving and changing ! — Thou who dost 
 
 abide
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 
 
 \Vhile all the crowns on all the heads of 
 
 kings 
 Wither as wreaths of snow ! — Thou Voice that 
 
 dwellest 
 In the high sleeping chambers of the great, 
 Wlien council and the feverish pomp are 
 
 hush'd, 
 And the dim lamp burns low, and at its side 
 The sleeping potion in a cup of gold : — 
 Hear me, O God, in this my travail hour ! 
 From first to last, Thou knowest — yea, Thou 
 
 knowest — 
 I have been a man of peace : a silent man, 
 Thought-loving, most ambitious to appease 
 Self-chiding fears of mental littleness, 
 A builder in the dark of temples fair 
 Where men might meet together not for 
 
 praise, 
 A planner of delights for simple men —
 
 l6 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 
 
 In all, a man of peace. I struck one blow, 
 And saw my hands were bloody ; from that 
 
 hour 
 I knew myself too delicately wrought 
 For crimson pageants ; yea, the sight of pain 
 Sicken'd me like a woman. Day and night 
 I felt that stain on my immortal soul, 
 And gloved it from the world, and diligently 
 Wrought the red sword of empire to a scythe 
 For the swart hands of husbandmen to reap 
 Abundant harvest. — Nay, but hear me swear, 
 I never dreamed such human harvests blest 
 As spring from that red rain which pours this 
 
 day 
 On the fair fields I sowed. Never, O God, 
 Was I a warrior or a thing of blood ; 
 Always a man of peace : — in mine ambition 
 Peace-seeking, peace-engendering ; — till that 
 
 day
 
 A L Y R I C A L D R A M A. I 7 
 
 I saw the half-unloosen'd hounds of War 
 Yelp on the chain, and gnash their bloody 
 
 teeth, 
 Ready to rend mine unoffending Child, 
 In whose weak hand the mimic toy of empire 
 Trembled to fall. Then feverishly I 
 
 WTOUght 
 
 A weapon in the dark to smite those hounds 
 From mine imperial seat ; and as I wrought 
 One of the fiends that came of old to Cain 
 Found me, and since I thirsted gave to me 
 A philtre, and in idiocy I drank : 
 A\Tien suddenly I heard as in a dream 
 Trumpets around me silver-tongued, and saw 
 The many-colour'd banners gleam i" the sun 
 Above the crying legions, and I rude 
 Royal before them, drunk with light and 
 
 power, 
 My boy beside nie blooming like a rose 
 
 C
 
 t8 napoleon fallen : 
 
 To see the glorious show. Yet God, my God, 
 Even then I swear the hideous lust of life 
 Was far from me and mine ; nay, I rode forth, 
 As to a gay review at break of day, 
 A student dazzled with the golden glare, 
 Half conscious of the cries of those he ruled. 
 Half brooding o'er the book that he had left 
 Open within his chamber. "Blood may flow," 
 I thought, " a little blood — a few poor drops, — 
 A few poor drops of blood : but they shall 
 
 prove 
 Pearls of great price to bu3^my people peace ; 
 The hounds of War shall turn from our fair 
 
 fields, 
 The cannon shall become a trump of praise, 
 And on my son a robe like this I wear 
 Shall fall, and make him royal for all time ! " 
 O fool, fool, fool ! What was I but a child, 
 Pleased beyond understanding with a toy,
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. I9 
 
 Till in mine cars the scream of murther'd 
 
 France 
 Rang like a knell. I had slain my best 
 
 beloved ! 
 The curse of blood was on mine hands 
 
 again! 
 My gentle boy, with wild affrighted gaze, 
 Tum'd from his sire, and moaned; the hounds 
 
 of War 
 Scream'd round me, glaring with their pitiless 
 
 eyes 
 Innumerable as the eyes of heaven ; 
 I felt the sob of the world's woe ; I saw 
 The fiery rain fill all the innocent air ; 
 And, feeble as a maid who hides her face 
 In terror at a sword flash, conscience-struck, 
 Sick, stupefied, appalled, and all alone, 
 I totter'd, grasped the empty air,— and 
 fell !
 
 20 NAPOLEON FALLEN 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Strophe I. 
 
 Ah woe ! ah woe ! 
 How art thou fallen, Man of Mysteries ! 
 Is this the face, are these the subtle eyes, 
 Kings sought in vain to fathom, and to know ? 
 
 O Man of Mysteries, 
 
 O thou whom men deem'd wise, 
 Call not on God this day — His hand hath 
 
 struck thee low. 
 
 Anti-Strophe I. 
 
 Call not on God, but listen. 
 Yea, with thy soul's ears, listen ! The earth 
 groans,
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 21 
 
 The thunder roars, swords flash, blue light- 
 nings glisten ! 
 Hark ! those are human moans ! 
 List ! the sharp rattle of the fiery hail, 
 The splashing rain of blood ! Dost thou turn 
 
 pale r 
 Who wrought this ? who atones ? 
 \\Tiat, tJion the people's Shepherd r Look, and 
 
 see : 
 Thy fields are darken'd with a blood-black 
 
 pall; 
 Thy farms are ruinous ; in the granary, 
 Where golden wheat should be, 
 The wounded lambs are gathcr'd as they fall. 
 
 O Man of Mysteries, 
 
 Hearken unto their cries; — 
 Call not on God this day — 'tis now too late 
 
 to call.
 
 22 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 
 
 Strophe II. 
 
 Yet, if thou darest, pray. Thou canst not tell 
 
 How prayer may bring thee gain ; — 
 
 And with thy prayer say thou these words as 
 
 well : — 
 " Soon falls the house mark'd with the cross 
 
 of Cain ! " 
 O man, with secret hands thou didst prepare 
 A Pleasure-house most rare, 
 A beauteous Temple magically built, 
 So that thy people gladden'd unaware 
 And wandering therein forgot thy guilt. 
 And drank the amorous ditties woven there 
 To lutes of lechers and their lemans fair ; 
 And all glad things were welcome in thy 
 
 sight 
 Save the glad air of heaven; all things 
 
 bright
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 23 
 
 Save the bright light of day ; and all things 
 
 sweet 
 Save country-featured Truth and Honesty : 
 All these thou didst abolish from thy Seat, 
 Because these things were free. 
 
 Thou call on God this day — 
 
 Thou call to the Most High — 
 Who asked Hell's blessing then, and let 
 
 God's gifts go by ! 
 
 Anti-Strophe II. 
 
 Pray yet, and heark. This Temple where thy 
 
 name 
 Was fluted forth by silver choirs of Fame, 
 This Pleasure-house of nations, this abode 
 Of strange enchantments, in due time became 
 An outrage and a shame. 
 
 Abominable in the eyes of God ;
 
 24 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 
 
 For all the beauteous things within the 
 
 place 
 Were witchcraft : all its glory was a lie ; 
 Not one true angel but perceived it base — 
 There was no gift of grace 
 But such as bawds may sell and gold can 
 
 buy; 
 Nay, even Art and Music, each with face 
 Averted, passed in tears. Thereon a cry 
 Went up against thy marvellous work and 
 
 thee 
 From the throats of all things free. 
 And o'er thy fields the desolating horde 
 Like to a swarm of locusts rose and 
 
 spread ! 
 The lightning of the Lord 
 Struck at thy glorious Temple, and it fled 
 Like vapour before sunlight! The green 
 
 sod
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 25 
 
 Is bloody where it stood and fair feet trod. 
 
 Fallen with thee it lies, 
 
 And it shall ne'er arise. 
 How should God bless thy work r Thou did'st 
 
 not build to God. 
 
 Enter a Bishop. 
 
 Napoleon. 
 
 Speak out thy tidings quickly, 
 
 How fares it with the Empress and my son r 
 
 Bishop. 
 
 Well, Sire. They bid thee look thy fate in the 
 
 face. 
 And be of cheer. • 
 
 Napoleon. 
 Where didst thou part with them r
 
 2-6 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 
 
 Bishop. 
 
 In England, Sire, where they have found a 
 
 home 
 Among the frozen-blooded islanders 
 Who yesterday called blessings on thy brow. 
 And now rejoice in thy calamity. 
 Thus much thy mighty lady bade me say, 
 If I should find thee private in thy woe : — 
 With thy great name the streets are garrulous ; 
 Mart, theatre, and church, palace and prison, 
 Down to the very commons by the road 
 Where Egypt's bastard children pitch their 
 
 tents. 
 Murmur " Napoleon ; " but, alas ! the sound 
 Is as an echo that with no refrain, 
 No loving echo in a living voice, 
 Dies a cold death among the mountain 
 
 snow.
 
 A L V R 1 C A L D R A M A. 27 
 
 Napoleon. 
 
 Old man, I never looked for friendship there, 
 I never loved that England in my heart ; 
 Tho' 'twas by such a sampler I believed 
 To weave our France's fortunes thriftily 
 With the gold tissues of prosperity. 
 
 Bishop. 
 Ah, Sire, if I dare speak — 
 
 Napoleon. 
 
 Speak on. 
 
 Bishop. 
 
 Too much 
 Tliine eyes to that cold isle of heretics
 
 28 NAPOLEON fallen: 
 
 Turn'd from thy throne for use and precedent ; 
 Too little did they look, and that too late, 
 On that strong rock whereon the Lord thy God 
 Hath built His Holy Church. 
 
 Napoleon. 
 
 Something of this 
 I have heard in happier seasons. 
 
 Bishop. 
 
 Hear it now 
 In the dark day of thine adversity. 
 
 Sire, by him who holds the blessed Keys, 
 Christ's Vicar on the earth for blinded men, 
 
 1 do conjure thee, hearken — with my mouth, 
 Tho' I am weak and low, the Holy Church 
 Cries to her erring son !
 
 A LYRICAL DRAM A. 29 
 
 Napoleon. 
 
 Well, well, he hears. 
 
 Bishop. 
 
 Thou smilest, Sire. With such a smile, so 
 
 grim, 
 So bitter, didst thou mock our blessed cause 
 In thy prosperity. 
 
 Napoleox. 
 
 False, Bishop, false ! 
 I made a bloody circle with my sword 
 Round the old Father's head, and so secured 
 
 him 
 Safe on his tottering Seat against the world, 
 When all the world cried that his time was 
 
 come.
 
 30 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 
 
 What then r He totter'd on. I could not 
 
 prop 
 His Seat up with my sword, that Seat being 
 
 built, 
 Not on a rock, but sand. 
 
 Bishop. 
 
 The world is sick 
 And old indeed, when lips like thine blas- 
 pheme. 
 Whisper such words out on the common air. 
 And, as a child. 
 Blow thy last hopes away. 
 
 Napoleon. 
 
 Hopes, hopes ! What hopes r 
 What knowest thou of hopes ?
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. ;i 
 
 Bishop. 
 
 77/v throne was rear'd 
 (Nay hear me, Sire, in patience to the end) 
 Not on the \^lgar, unsubstantial air 
 ^^^lich men call Freedom, not on half consent 
 Of unbelievers — tho', alas ! thou hast stoop'd 
 To smile on unbelievers — not on lives 
 That saw in thee one of the good and wise, 
 Not wholly on the watchword of thy name ; 
 But first on this — the swords thy gold could 
 
 buy, 
 And most and last, upon the help of those 
 Who to remotest corners of our land 
 Watch o'er the souls of men, sit at their 
 
 hearths, 
 Lend their solemnity to birth and death, 
 Guide as they list the motions of the mind. 
 And as they list with darkness or wilh light
 
 32 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 
 
 Appease the spiritual hunger. Where 
 
 Had France been, and thou, boasted Sun of 
 
 France, 
 For nineteen harvests, save for those who 
 
 crept 
 Thine agents into every cottage door. 
 Slowly distilling thro' each vein of France 
 The vital blood of empire ? Like to slaves 
 These served thee, used thy glory for a charm, 
 Hung up thine image in the peasant's room 
 Beside our blessed saints, and cunningly, 
 As shepherds drive their sheep unto the fold, 
 Gather'd thy crying people where thy hand 
 Might choose them out for very butchery. 
 Nay, more ; as fearful men may stamp out 
 
 fire, 
 They in the spirits of thy people killed 
 The sparks of peril left from those dark 
 
 days,
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. ;^^ 
 
 WTien France, being' drunk with blood and 
 
 mad with pain, 
 Sprang on the burning pyre, and all her 
 
 raiment 
 Burning and streaming crimson in the wind, 
 Curst and denied her God. They made men see, 
 Yea in the very name of Liberty, 
 A net of Satan's set to snare the soul 
 From Christ and Christ's salvation : in their 
 
 palms 
 They welded the soft clay of popular thought 
 To this wish'd semblance yet more cunningly ; 
 Till not a peasant heir of his own fields, 
 And not a citizen that own'd a house. 
 And not a man or woman who had saved. 
 But when some wild voice shriek'd out 
 
 " Liberty ! " 
 Trembled as if the robber's foot were set 
 Already on his threshold, and in fear 
 
 D
 
 I 
 
 34 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 
 
 Clutch'd at his little store. These things did 
 they, 
 
 Christ's servants serving* theej they were as 
 
 veins | 
 
 Of iron binding France to thee, its heart, 
 
 Throbbing full glorious in the capital. 
 
 And thou, O Sire, in thine own secret mind 
 
 Knowest what meed thou hast accorded 
 them, 
 
 Who, thy sworn liegemen in thy triumph- 
 hour, 
 
 Are still thy props in thy calamity. 
 
 Napoleon. 
 Well ; have you done ? 
 
 i 
 
 Bishop. 
 
 Not yet.
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 35 
 
 Napoleox. 
 
 What more ? 
 
 Bishop. 
 
 Look round 
 This day on Europe, look upon the World, 
 A\Tiich, like a dark tree o'er the river of Time, 
 Hangeth with fruit of races, goodly some, 
 Some rotten to the core. Out of the heart 
 Of what had seem'd the sunset of the west, 
 Rises the Teuton, silent, subtle, and sure, 
 Gathering his venom slowly like a snake, 
 Wrapping the sleepy lands in fold by fold; 
 Then springing up to stab his prey with fangs 
 Numerous as spears of wheat in harvest time. 
 O, he is wise, the Teuton, he is deep 
 As Satan's self in perilous human lore,
 
 36 NAPOLEON FALLEN 
 
 Such as the purblind deem philosophy ! 
 But, be he cunning as the tempter was, 
 Christ yet shall bruise his head; for in himself 
 He bears, as serpents use, 
 A brood of lesser snakes, cunning things too, 
 But lesser, and of these many prepare 
 Such peril as in his most glorious hour 
 May strike him feebler than the wretched 
 
 worms 
 That crawl this day on the dead lambs of 
 
 France. 
 Meantime, he to his purpose moveth slow, 
 And overcomes. Note how, upon her rock. 
 The sea-beast Albion, swollen with idle 
 
 years 
 Of basking in the prosperous sunshine, rolls 
 Her fearful eyes, and murmurs. See how 
 
 wildly 
 The merciless Russian paceth like a bear
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 37 
 
 His lonely steppes of snow, and with deep 
 
 moan 
 Calling" his hideous young, casts famished eyes 
 On that worn Paralytic in the East 
 Whom thou of old didst save. Call thou to 
 
 these 
 For succour ; shall they stir r Will the sea- 
 
 beast 
 Budge from her rock r Will the bear leave 
 
 his wilds r 
 Then mark how feebly in the wintry cold 
 Old Austria ruffles up her plumage, Sire, 
 Covering the half-heal'd wound upon her 
 
 neck ; 
 See how on Spain her home-bred vermin feed. 
 As did the worms on Herod ; Italy 
 Is as a dove-cote by a battle-field. 
 Abandoned to the kites of infamy ; 
 Belgium, Denmark, and Helvetia,
 
 38 NAPOLEON fallen: 
 
 Like plovers watching while the wind-hover 
 Strikes down one of their miserable kind, 
 Wheeling upon the wind, cry to each other ; 
 And far away the Eagle of the West, 
 Poised in the lull of her own hurricane. 
 Sits watching thee with eyes as blank of love 
 As those grey seas that break beneath her feet. 
 
 Napoleon. 
 
 This is cold comfort, yet I am patient. Well ? 
 
 To the issue ! Dost thou keep behind the 
 salve 
 
 Whose touch shall heal my wounds ? or dost 
 thou only, 
 
 As any raven on occasion can. 
 
 Croak out the stale truth, that the day is lost, 
 
 And that the world's slaves knee the con- 
 queror ? 
 
 i
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 39 
 
 Bishop. 
 
 Look not on these, thy crowned peers, for aid, 
 But inward. Read thy heart. 
 
 Napoleon. 
 
 It is a book 
 I have studied somewhat deeply. 
 
 Bishop. 
 
 In thine heart, 
 Tho' the cold lips might sneer, the dark brow 
 
 frown, 
 Wert thou not ever one believing God ? 
 
 Napoleon. 
 I have believed, and do believe,' in God.
 
 40 NAPOLEON fallen: 
 
 Bishop. 
 
 For that, give thanks to God. He shall up- 
 lift thee. 
 
 Napoleon. 
 How ? 
 
 Bishop. 
 
 By the secret hands of His great Church. 
 Even now in darkness and in scenes remote 
 They labour in thy service ; one by one 
 They gather up the fallen reins of power } 
 
 i 
 
 And keep them for thy grasp ; so be thou 
 
 sure, 
 When thou hast gather'd round about thy soul 
 The Robe of Holiness, and from the hands 
 Of Holy Church demandest thy lost throne, 
 It shall be hers to give thee.
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 41 
 
 Napoleon. 
 
 In good truth, 
 I scarce conceive thee. WTiat, degenerate 
 
 Rome, 
 With scarce the power in this strong wind of 
 
 war 
 To hold her ragged gauds about her limbs ; 
 Rome, reft of the deep thunder in her voice, 
 The dark curse in her eye ; Rome, old, dumb, 
 
 blind, — 
 Shall Rome give Kingdoms r — Why, she hath 
 
 already 
 Transferred her own to Heaven. 
 
 Bishop. 
 
 Canst thou follow 
 The coming and the going of the wind, 
 Fathom the dark abysses of the sea ?
 
 42 NAPOLEON FALLEN 
 
 For such as these, is Rome : — the voice of God 
 
 Sounding in darkness and a silent place ; 
 
 The morning dew scarce seen upon the 
 flowers, 
 
 Yet drawn to heaven and grown the thunder- 
 bolt 
 
 That strikes a King at noon. When man's 
 wild soul 
 
 Clutches no more at the white feet of Christ ; 
 
 When death is not, nor spiritual disease ; 
 
 When atheists can on the dark mountain 
 tops 
 
 Walk solitary in the light of stars, 
 
 And cry, " God is not ; " when no mothers 
 kneel 
 
 Moaning on graves of children; when no flashes 
 
 Trouble the melancholy dark of dream ; 
 
 When prayer is hush'd, when the Wise Book 
 is shut — 
 
 I
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 43 
 
 Then Rome shall fall indeed : meantime she 
 
 is based 
 In\'ulnerable on the soul of man, 
 Its darkest needs and fears ; she doth dispense 
 What soon or late is better prized than gold, — 
 Comfort and intercession ; for all sin 
 She hath the swiftest shrift, wherefore her 
 
 clients 
 Are those that have sinned deeply, and of such 
 Is half the dreadful world ; all these she holds 
 By that cold eyeball which has read their 
 
 souls, 
 So that they look upon her secretly 
 And tremble, — while in her dark book of Fate 
 E'en now she dooms the Teuton, 
 
 Enter a jMessenger. 
 Napoleon. 
 
 Well, what news r
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 44 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 
 
 Messenger. 
 
 'Tis brief and sad. The mighty Prussian 
 
 chiefs, * 
 
 Gathering their fiery van in silence, 
 
 close 
 Toward the imperial City — in whose walls 
 Treason and Rage and Fear contend together 
 Like hunger-stricken wolves ; and at their 
 
 cry, 
 Echoed from Paris to the Vosges, France, 
 Calling her famish'd children round her 
 
 knees, l 
 
 Implores the trembling nations. All is still, 
 Like to that silence which fyecedes the storm. 
 And shakes the forest leaves without a breath; 
 But surely as the vaporous storm is woven. 
 The German closes round the heart of France 
 His hurricane of lives. 
 
 i
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 45 
 
 Napoleon [to Bishop). 
 
 The Teuton thrives 
 Under the doom we spake of. [To Mes- 
 senger.) Well, speak on ! 
 
 Messenger. 
 
 Meantime, like kine that see the gathering 
 
 clouds, 
 And shelter 'neath the shade of rocks and 
 
 trees, 
 Thy timorous people fly before the sound 
 Of the approaching footsteps, seeking woods 
 For shelter, snaring conies for their food, 
 And sleeping like the beasts ; some fare in 
 
 caves. 
 Fearing the wholesome air, hushing the 
 
 cries 
 Of infants lest the murderous foe should hear ;
 
 46 NAPOLEON FALI,EN : 
 
 Some scatter west and south, their frighted eyes 
 Cast backward, with their wretched household 
 
 goods ; 
 And where these dwelt, most blest beneath 
 
 thy rule. 
 The German legions thrive, let loose like 
 
 swine 
 Amid the fields of harvest, in their track 
 Leaving the smoking ruin, and the church 
 Most desecrated to a sleeping-sty ; — 
 So that the plenteous lands that rolled in gold 
 Round thine imperial city, lie full bare 
 To shame, to rapine, to calamity. 
 
 Napoleon. 
 
 for one hour of empire, that with life 
 
 1 might consume this sorrow ! 'Tis a spell 
 By which we are subdued ! 
 
 r 
 
 I
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 47 
 
 Messexger. 
 
 Strasbourg still stands, 
 Stubborn as granite, but the citadel 
 Has fallen. Within, Famine and Horror nest, 
 And rear their young on ruin. [Exi/. 
 
 Enter a IVIessenger, 
 
 Napoleon. 
 
 How, peal on peal ! 
 Like the agonizing clash of bells, when flame 
 Has seized on some fair city. News, more 
 
 news ? 
 Dost thou too catch the common trick o' the 
 
 time, 
 And ring a melancholy peal ? 
 
 Messenger. 
 
 My liege, 
 Strasbourg still stands.
 
 48 NAPOLEON FALLEN 
 
 Napoleon. 
 
 And then ? 
 
 Messenger. 
 
 Pent up in Metz, 
 Encircled by a river of strong lives, 
 Bazaine is faithful to the cause and thee, 
 And from his prison doth proclaim himself, 
 And all the host of Frenchmen at his back, 
 Thy liegemen to the death. 
 
 Napoleon. 
 
 Why, that last peal 
 Sounds somewhat blither. Well ? 
 
 Messenger. 
 
 From his lone isle, 
 The old Italian Red-shirt in his age 
 
 t
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 49 
 
 Has crawl'd, tho' sickly and intirm, to France, 
 And slowly there his leonine features breed 
 Hope in the timid people, who 
 
 Napoleon. 
 
 Enough ! {Exit IMessexger. 
 That tune is flat and tame. 
 
 [Enter a MESSENGER. 
 
 What man art thou, 
 
 On whose swart face the frenzied lightning 
 
 plays. 
 Prophetic of the thunder on the tongue ? 
 
 » 
 
 Speak ! 
 
 Messenger. 
 
 Better I had died at Weissemberg, 
 Where on the bloody field I lay for dead, 
 
 E
 
 5° 
 
 NAPOLEON FALLEN 
 
 Than live to bring this woe. Ungenerous 
 
 France, 
 Forgetful of thy gracious years of reign, 
 Pitiless as a sated harlot is 
 When ruin overtaketh him whose hand 
 Hath loaded her with gems, shameless and 
 
 mad, 
 France, like Delilah, now betrays her lord. 
 The streets are drunken — from thy palace-gate 
 They pluck the imperial eagles, trampling 
 
 them 
 Into the bloody mire ; thy flags and pennons, 
 Torn from their vantage in the wind, are 
 
 wrapt 
 In mockery round the beggar's ragged limbs ; 
 And thine imperial images in stone, 
 Dash'd from their lofty places, strew the 
 
 ground 
 In shameful ruin. All the ragged shout.
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 51 
 
 AVhile from the presidential seat Trochu 
 Proclaims the empire dead, and calleth up 
 A new Republic, in whose chairs of oflPice 
 Thine enemies, scribblers and demagogues, 
 Simon, Gambetta, Favre, and with these 
 The miserable Rochefort, trembling grasp 
 The reins of power, unconscious of the scorn 
 That doth already doom them. To their feet 
 Come humming back, vain-drunken, all the 
 
 wasps 
 That in thine hour of glory thou didst brush 
 With careless arm-sweep from thy festal cup : 
 Shoulder'd by mobs the pigmy Blanc declaims, 
 The hare-brain'd Hugo shrieks a maniac song 
 In concert, and the scribblers, brandishing 
 Their pens like valiant Lilliputians 
 Against the Teuton giant, frantically 
 Scream chorus. Coming with mock-humble 
 
 eyes
 
 52 NAPOLEON fallen: 
 
 To the Republic, this sham shape of straw, 
 This stuff'd thing of a harlot's carnival, 
 The dilettante sons of Orleans, kneeling. 
 Proffer forsooth their swords, which, being 
 
 disdain'd, 
 They sheathe chopfallen, and wdth bows 
 
 withdraw 
 Back to their pictures and perfumery. 
 
 I 
 
 Napoleon. 
 
 Why, thine is news indeed. Nor do I weep 
 For mine own wrong, but for the woes of 
 
 France, 1 
 
 Whose knell thou soundest. With a tongue 
 
 of fire 
 Our enemy shall like the ant-eater 
 Devour these insect rulers suddenly.
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 53 
 
 [AsiJi] Now, may the foul fiend blacken all 
 
 the air 
 Above these Frenchmen, with revolt and fear 
 Darken alike the wits of friends and foes, 
 With swift confusion and with anarchy 
 Disturb their fretful councils, till at last, 
 Many-tongTicd, wild-hair'd, mad, and horrible, 
 With fiery eyes and naked crimson limbs, 
 Upriseth the old Spectre of the Red, 
 And as of yore uplifts the shameful knife 
 To stab unhappy France ; then, in her need, 
 Fearful and terror-stricken, France shall call 
 On him who gave her nineteen years of sleep — 
 And he may rise again. \_ExcunL 
 
 CHORUS. 
 
 Strophe I. 
 
 First turning eastward thrice, and making the 
 mystic sign,
 
 54 NAPOLEON FALLEN 
 
 Wipe ye the bloody hair out of her beautiful 
 
 eyne, 
 And cover up her face with the black fold of 
 
 her dress : 
 Then, lastly, stooping slow, raise her with 
 
 tenderness, 
 And follow where we lead with a melancholy 
 
 tread, 
 Beating our bared breasts to the deep chant 
 
 of the dead ; 
 Nor fail each man to crave in a deep voice and 
 
 strong. 
 That God may smite those sore who did her 
 
 this foul wrong ; 
 Nor fail each man to pause and draw deep 
 
 breaths of prayer. 
 And all for France, our murdered France, 
 
 whom to the grave we bear. 
 
 i
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 55 
 
 Anti-Strophe I. 
 
 Sons, ye are bloody-shod ! Sons, ye breathe 
 
 bloody breath ! 
 Your nostrils feel, O sons, the salt sharp 
 
 stench of death ! 
 Your brethren rot afield, your children cry in 
 
 the dark ; 
 Across your sisters' throats the butcher 
 
 leaves his mark ; 
 With shameful finger-stains upon their bosom 
 
 bare, 
 Your dear ones lie and hide their faces in their 
 
 hair; 
 And yet I say this night, your pangs are light 
 
 and free 
 Beside her pangs whose dust ye carry after 
 
 me.
 
 56 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 
 
 And yet I say this night, hush up your private 
 
 wrong, 
 Gather your wrath, my sons, in one deep 
 
 breath and strong — 
 Curse me the Teuton butchers ! Curse me 
 
 son, mother, and sire ! 
 Call to the Lord for slaughter ! call to the 
 
 Lord for fire ! 
 Scream me the thunders down ! cry till the 
 
 lightnings spring ! 
 And all for France, our mother France, whom 
 
 we are carrying. 
 
 Strophe II. 
 
 Last night she was a Queen ! — draw back the 
 
 cloak, and lo ! 
 The pale face set in hair threaded with silver 
 
 snow, 
 
 ! 
 
 i
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 57 
 
 The thin close-pressed lips, the delicate silken 
 
 chin, 
 The round great eyes closed up, and dark, 
 
 all dark, within. 
 Come, touch her on the check ; come, bless 
 
 her as she lies ; 
 Come, kiss the dark lids down on the beloved 
 
 eyes ; 
 Fall'n in her hour of pride, torn from her 
 
 triumph-car, 
 Is she not dearer still than all things earthly 
 
 are ? 
 O France ! O Mother ! speak. O beautiful 
 
 Mother, wake ! 
 Look on us, for we die : — we die for thy dear 
 
 sake : 
 The slayer is at our gates — weak are our 
 
 prayers and vain — 
 . . . Ah, God, she is not dead ! — she stirs ! 
 — her eyes unclose again !
 
 58 NAPOLEON FALLEN 
 
 Anti-Strophe II. 
 
 1 
 
 Sons, gather round, gather round ! Sons, be 
 
 of cheer, be of cheer ! a 
 
 Beautiful, pale as snow, she stirs upon her 
 
 bier. il 
 
 Ah, but she is not dead ! Mother, O Mother, 
 
 speak ! 
 She rises up her height — the bright blood 
 
 burns in her cheek — 
 See how her great eyes gleam thro' tears of 
 
 pain and shame — 
 See how the mighty lips tremble and quiver 
 
 to flame. 
 She reacheth down to feel her sword, and it is 
 
 there — i 
 
 She holds it up to God ; it gleams in the 
 
 black air ; 
 
 
 I
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 59 
 
 Sons, gather round, gather round ! Sons, it 
 is not too late ! 
 
 She turns her face to him who croucheth at 
 the gate — 
 
 In the wild wind of war her bloodstain'd gar- 
 ments wave — 
 
 "With bitter, bleeding heart, our France springs 
 up as from the grave. 
 
 Strophe III. 
 
 Set the cannon on the heights ! and under 
 Let the black moat gape, the black graves 
 grow ! 
 Now, let thunder 
 
 Answer back the thunder of the foe ! 
 France has torn her cerements asunder — 
 I-"rance doth live, to strike the oppressor 
 low.
 
 6o NAPOLEON FALLEN : 
 
 I 
 
 Now let the smithy blaze, and the blue steel 
 
 be sped ; T 
 
 Twist iron into guns, cast ye the fatal 
 
 lead; 
 Drag cannon to the gate, — and let our bravest 
 
 stand 
 Bare to the shoulder there, smoke-begrim'd, 
 
 torch in hand. 
 Now to the winds of heaven the Flag of 
 
 Stars upraise ; || 
 
 Let those sing martial songs who are too frail 
 
 for frays. 
 France is uprisen again ! France, the sworn 
 
 slayer of Kings ! * 
 
 With bleeding breast and bitter heart, at the 
 
 Teuton's throat she springs.
 
 A LYRICAL DRAM A. 6 1 
 
 Anti-Strophe III. 
 
 Dig the trenches broad and deep ! and, 
 after, 
 They shall sen'c for foemen's graves as 
 well — 
 Let fierce laughter 
 
 Ser\'e the German butchers for a knell. 
 Fire the paths they tread ! Let floor and 
 rafter 
 Blaze, till all our city is as Hell. 
 Now should they enter in, stand ye prepared 
 
 with flame 
 To light the hidden mine under the city of 
 
 shame. 
 Gather our children and wives, let them not 
 
 watch or weep ; 
 While we are striking home let them be pray- 
 ing deep.
 
 62 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 
 
 They are famish'd, give them food — they are 
 
 thirsty, let them drink : ,ii 
 
 Blood shall suffice for us, whether we rise or 
 
 sink. ' 
 
 France is uprisen again ! — how should we 
 
 drink and eat, 
 Till, stiff in death, the Teuton snake is coil'd | 
 
 beneath her feet ? . 
 
 i 
 
 Strophe IV. I 
 
 Now like thunder 
 
 Be our voice together while we cry — 
 Kings shall never hold our spirits under, 
 
 Kings shall cast their crowns aside and 
 
 fly. i 
 
 Latin, Sclav, or Teuton, they shall wonder ; 
 The soul of man hath doom'd them— let 
 them die. 
 
 i 
 
 I 
 
 i
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. O3 
 
 We have slain Kings of old — they were our 
 
 own to slay — 
 But now we doom all Kings until the Judg- 
 ment Day. 
 Raise ye the Flag of Stars ! Tremble, O 
 
 kings, and behold ! 
 Raise ye the Flag of Man, while the knell of 
 
 anarchs is toll'd ! 
 This is a festal day for all the seed of Eve : 
 France shall redeem the world, and heal all 
 
 hearts that grieve ; 
 France with her sword this day shall free all 
 
 human things ; 
 With blood drain'dfrom her heart, our France 
 
 shall write the doom of Kings. 
 
 Axti-Strophe IV. 
 
 Fill each loophole with a man ! and finding 
 Each a foe, aim slowly at the brain,
 
 64 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 
 
 While the blinding 
 
 Lightnings flash, and the great guns re- 
 frain. 
 To the roofs ! and while beneath the foe are 
 winding 
 Dash ye stones and missiles down like 
 rain. 
 Watch for the greybeard King : to drink his 
 
 blood were great. 
 Watch for the Cub thereto — aim at his brain 
 
 full straight. 
 Watch most for that foul Knave, who crawls 
 
 behind the Crown, 
 Who smiles, befooling all, with crafty eyes 
 
 cast down : 
 Sweeter than wine indeed his damned blood 
 
 would flow, m 
 
 Curst juggler with our souls, he who hath 
 wrought this woe. 
 
 I 
 
 ! 
 
 i
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 
 
 France hath uprisen again ! Let the fierce 
 
 shaft be sped ! 
 Till all the foul Satanic things that flatter 
 
 Kings be dead ! 
 
 Strophe V. 
 
 Send the light balloon aloft with singing, 
 
 Let our hopes rise with it to the sky ! 
 Let our voices like one fount upspringing 
 Tell the mighty realm that hope is 
 nigh. 
 See, in answer, from the distance wing- 
 ing, 
 Back unto our feet the swift doves fly. 
 Read ! read ! yea, all is well, — yea, let our 
 
 hearts be higher ; 
 North, south, east, west, the souls of French- 
 men are as fire. 
 
 F
 
 66 NAPOLEON FALLEN 
 
 i 
 
 1 
 
 Wildly from hill to hill the blessed tidings 
 
 speed ! 
 Come from your fields, O sons ! France is 
 
 arisen indeed. i 
 
 The reaper leaves the wheat, the workman 
 
 leaves his loom. 
 
 Tho' the black priest may frown, who heeds 
 
 his look of gloom r 
 
 f 
 Flash the wild tidings forth ! ring them from 
 
 town to town, — 
 
 Till like a storm of scythes we rise, and the 
 
 foe like wheat go down. 
 
 Anti-Strophe V. 3 
 
 See, how northward the wild heavens lighten ! 
 
 Red as blood the fierce aurora waves ; 
 Let it bathe us strong in blood, and brighten 
 
 Sweet with resurrection on our graves — 
 Lighten, lighten !
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 67 
 
 Scroll of CtucI ! unfold above and brighten ! 
 Light the doom of monarchs and their 
 
 slaves ! 
 This is a day indeed — be sure that God can 
 
 see. 
 Raise the fierce cry again, " Liberty ! 
 
 Liberty ! " 
 Courage ! no man dies twice, and he shall 
 
 live in death, 
 Who for the Llag of Stars strikes with his 
 
 latest breath. 
 Xay, not a foe shall live to tell if France be 
 
 slain. 
 If the wild cause be lost, only the grave shall 
 
 gain. 
 Teuton and Frank in fierce embrace shall 
 
 strew the fatal sod ; 
 And they shall live indeed who died to save 
 
 their souls for God !
 
 68 NAPOLEON FALLEN 
 
 Enter Napoleon and a7i Officer. 
 
 Officer. 
 
 Once in a dream, laeing worn and weak, I saw 
 
 A fight between a hydra and a wolf, 
 
 In which the wily thing, with fold on fold 
 
 Of luminous coils enveloping its foe, 
 
 So that it could not breathe, nor stir, nor 
 
 scream, 
 Struck not, but shooting out its hugest 
 
 head, 
 Coiling it backward as I twist my arm, 
 Poised o'er the wolfs fierce face, and, with 
 
 red fangs 
 Drawn and withdrawn to a horrid hissing 
 
 sound. 
 Gazed stedfast with mesmeric orbs of fire 
 Into the fierce yet fascinated eyes 
 
 J^
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 69 
 
 That watch'd them slowly closing up for 
 
 doom. 
 E'en so it seem'd to stand of late with France 
 And her oppressor. liut by God's own 
 
 hand, 
 Or by some agency well deem'd divine, 
 The spell is shaken. Screaming in despair 
 The wolf strikes at the snake, and with 
 
 strong feet 
 Forcing the fierce head to the ground, pre- 
 pares 
 To spring upon and rend it, though around 
 The lesser heads, hissing like red-hot iron 
 Dashed into water, stab, and stab, and 
 
 stab, 
 With thrusts repeated swift as one can 
 
 breathe, 
 At the lean sides that run with bitterest 
 
 blood,
 
 ' 7^ NAPOLEON FALLEN : | 
 
 "While still the great heart throbbeth strong 
 
 and true, 
 And still the wild face, fearless even to death, 
 Gleameth by fits with rage and agony. 
 
 Napoleon. 
 
 Is there no hope for France ? 
 
 Officer. 
 
 None. Yet I know not. 
 A nation thus miraculously strengthen'd, 
 And acting in the fiercest wrath of love, 
 Hath risen ere this above calamity. 
 And out of anguish conjured victory. 
 If strength and numbers, if the mighty hand 
 Of the Briareus, shall decide the da}^. 
 Then surely as the sun sets France must 
 fall; 
 
 I 
 t
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 7I 
 
 If love or prayer can make a miracle 
 
 And brinyf an angel down to strike for her, 
 
 Then France may rise again. 
 
 Napoleon. 
 
 Have we not proved 
 Her children cowards r Yea, by God ! Like 
 
 dogs 
 That rend the air with wrath upon the 
 
 chain, 
 And being loosen'd slink before the thief, 
 They fail'd me — those who led and those 
 
 who follow'd ; 
 Scarce knowing friend from foe, while inch by 
 
 inch 
 The Germans ate their ranks as a slow fire 
 Devoureth wind-blown wheat. I cannot trust 
 In France or Frenchmen.
 
 72 
 
 NAPOLEON FALLEN 
 
 Officer. 
 
 Sire- 
 
 Napoleon. 
 
 Why dost thou hang 
 Thy head, old friend, and look upon the 
 
 ground ? 
 Nay, if all Frenchmen had but hearts like 
 
 thine, 
 Then France were blest in sooth, and I, its 
 
 master. 
 Were safe against the swords of all the 
 
 world. 
 
 Officer. 
 
 Sire, 'twas not that I meant — my life is yours 
 To give or take, to blame or praise ; I blush'd 
 Not for myself, but France.
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 73 
 
 Napoleox. 
 
 Then hadst thou cause 
 For crimson cheeks indeed. 
 
 Officer. 
 
 Sire, as I live, 
 Thou wrongest her ! The breast whereon we 
 
 grew 
 Suckled no cowards. For one dizzy hour 
 France totter'd, and look'd back ; but now, 
 
 indeed, 
 She hath arisen to the very height 
 Of her great peril. 
 
 Napoleon. 
 
 'Tis too late. She is lost. 
 She did betray her master, and shall die.
 
 74 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 
 
 Officer. 
 
 Not France betrayed thee, Sire ; but rather 
 
 those 
 Whom thy most noble nature, royally based 
 Above suspicion and perfidious fear, 
 Welcom'd unto thy council; not poor France, 
 Whose bleeding wounds speak for her loud 
 
 as tongues, 
 Bit at the hand that raised her up so high ; 
 Not France, but bastard Frenchmen, doubly 
 
 damn'd 
 Alike by her who bare them, and by thee 
 Who fed them. These betrayed thee to thy 
 
 doom, 
 And falling clutch'd at thine imperial crown. 
 Dragging it with them to the bloody dust ; 
 But these that held her arms like bands of 
 
 lead
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 75 
 
 Being torn from off her, France, unchain'd 
 
 and free, 
 Uplifts her pale front to the stars, and stands 
 Serene in doom and danger, and sublime 
 In resurrection. 
 
 Napoleon. 
 
 » 
 
 p How the popular taint 
 
 Corrupts the wholesome matter of thy mind ! 
 This would be treason, friend, if we were 
 
 strong — 
 Now 'tis less perilous : the commonest wind 
 Can blow its scorn upon the fallen. 
 
 Offickr. 
 
 Siro, 
 Behold me on my knees, tears in mine eyes,
 
 76 NAPOLEON fallen: 
 
 And sorrow in my heart. My life is thine, 
 My life, my heart, my soul are pledged to 
 
 thine ; 
 And trebly now doth thy calamity 
 Hold me thy slave and servant. If I pray, 
 'Tis that thou mayst arise, and thou shalt rise; 
 And if I praise our common mother, France, 
 Who for the moment hath forgot her lord, 
 'Tis that my soul rejoices for thy sake. 
 That, when thou comest to thine own again, 
 Thy realm shall be a realm regenerate. 
 Baptised, a fair thing worthy of thy love, 
 In its own blood of direful victory. 
 
 Napoleon. 
 
 Say'st thou ? — Rise ! — Friend, thou art little 
 
 skilled 
 In reading that abstruse astrology i
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 
 
 \Vhereby our cunning politicians cast 
 The fate of Kings. France robed in victory, 
 Is France for ever lost to our great house. 
 France fallen, is France that with my secret 
 
 hand 
 I may uplift again. But tell thy tale 
 Most freely : let thy soul beat its free wings 
 Before me as it lists. Come ! as thou 
 
 sayest, 
 France is no coward ; — she hath at last 
 
 arisen ; 
 Nay, more — she is sublime. Proceed. 
 
 Officer. 
 
 My liege, 
 
 God, ere he made me thy most loving servant. 
 Made and baptised me, Frenchman ; and my 
 P heart, 
 
 A soldier's heart, yearns out tliis day in pride
 
 78 NAPOLEON fallen: 
 
 To her who bare me, and both great and low 
 My brethren. Courage is a virtue, Sire, 
 Even in a wretched cause. In Strasbourg 
 
 still 
 Old Ulrich, with his weight of seventy years, 
 Starves unsubdued, w^hile the dull enemy 
 Look on in wonder at such strength in woe ; 
 Bazaine still keeps the glittering hosts at 
 
 bay, 
 And holds them wdth a watchful hand and 
 
 eye; 
 The captain of the citadel of Laon, 
 Soon as the foeman gather'd on his walls, 
 Illumed the hidden mine, and Frank and 
 
 Teuton, 
 With that they strove for, strew'd the path in 
 
 death ; 
 From Paris to the Vosges, loud and wild, 
 The tocsin rings to arms, and on the fields 
 
 I
 
 I 
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 79 
 
 The fat ripe ear empties itself unreapt, 
 While ^every man whose hand can grasp a 
 
 sword 
 Flocks to the petty standard of his town. 
 The many looms of the great factory 
 Stand silent, but the fiery moulds of clay 
 Are fashioning cannon, and the blinding 
 
 wheels 
 Are sharpening steel. In every market- 
 place 
 Peasant and prince are drilling side by 
 
 side ; 
 Roused from their wine-fed torpor, changed 
 
 from swine 
 To men, the very country burghers arm, 
 Xay, what is more to them than blood, bleed 
 
 gold 
 Bounteously, freely ; I have heard that 
 
 priests.
 
 8o NAPOLEON fallen: 
 
 Doffing the holy cassock secretly, 
 
 Shouting uplift the sword, and crying Christ 
 
 To aid them strike for France. Only the 
 
 basest, 
 Only the scum, shrink now ; for even women. 
 Catching the noble fever of the time, 
 Buckle the war -belts round their lovers' 
 
 waists. 
 And clapping hands, with mingled cries and 
 
 sobs. 
 Urge young and old against the enemy. 
 
 Napoleon. 
 
 Of so much thunder may the lightning spring. 
 I know how France can thunder, and I have 
 
 felt 
 How women's tongues can urge. But what 
 
 of Paris ? 
 
 i 
 
 a
 
 I 
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 8l 
 
 A\Tiat of Lutetia r How doth it bear 
 The terror and the agony r 
 
 Officer. 
 
 Most bravely, 
 As doth become the glorious heart of France : 
 Strong, fearless, throbbing with a martial 
 
 might. 
 Dispensing from its core the vital heat 
 Which filleth all the members of the land ; 
 Tho' even now the sharp steel pricks the 
 
 skin, 
 To stab it in its strength. 
 
 Napoleox. 
 
 Who holds the reins 
 Within the gates ? 
 
 G
 
 82 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 
 
 Officer. 
 
 Trochu. 
 
 Napoleon. 
 
 Still ? Why, how long 
 Have the poor fools been constant? Favre 
 
 also ? 
 Gambetta ? Rochefort ? All these gentlemen 
 Still flourish ? And Thiers ? Hath the arch- 
 schemer 
 A seat among the gods, a place of rank 
 With the ephemera ? 
 
 Officer. 
 
 Not so, my liege. 
 
 Napoleon. 
 
 Well, being seated on Olympus' top, 
 What thunderbolts are France's puny Joves
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 83 
 
 Casting abroad ? Or do they sit and quake 
 For awe of their own voices, which in France, 
 As in the shifting glaciers of the Alps, 
 May bring the avalanche upon their heads r 
 
 Officer. 
 
 The men, to do them justice, use their power 
 Calmly and soldierly, and for a time 
 Forget the bitter humours of the senate 
 In the great common cause. Paris is strong, 
 And full of noble souls. 
 
 Napoleon. 
 
 Paris must fall. 
 
 Officer. 
 
 Not soon, my liege — for she is belted round 
 And arm'd impregnable on every side.
 
 84 NAPOLEON fallen: 
 
 Hunger and thirst may slay her, not the 
 
 sword ; 
 And ere the foeman's foot is heard within, 
 Paris will spring upon her funeral pyre 
 And, boldly as an Indian widow, follow 
 Freedom, her spouse, to heaven. Last week I 
 
 walk'd 
 Reading men's faces in the silent streets, 
 And, as I am a soldier, saw in none 
 Fear or capitulation : very harlots 
 Cried in their shame the name of Liberty, 
 And, hustled from the gates, shriek'd out a 
 
 curse 
 Upon the coming German : all was still 
 And dreadful ; but the citizens in silence 
 Drilled in the squares ; on the great boulevard 
 
 groups 
 Whisper'd together, with their faces pale 
 At white heat ; in the silent theatre, 
 
 t 
 
 
 t
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. S 
 
 D 
 
 I 
 
 Dim lit by lamps, were women, wives and 
 
 mothers, 
 Silently working for their wounded sons 
 And husbands ; in the churches, too, they sat 
 And wrought, while ever and anon a foot 
 Rung on the pavement, and with sad red eyes 
 They turn'd to see some armed citizen 
 Kneel at his orisons or vespers. Nightly, 
 lire the moon rose, the City slept like death ; 
 Yet as a lion sleeps, with half-shut eyes, 
 Hearing each murmur on the weary wind, 
 Crouching and steady for the spring. Each 
 
 dawn 
 I saw the country carts come rumbling in, 
 And the scared country-folk, with large wild 
 
 eyes ^ 
 
 And open mouths, who flock'd for shelter, 
 
 bringing 
 Horrible tidings of the enemy,
 
 86 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 
 
 Who had devoured their fields and happy 
 
 homes. 
 Then suddenly like a low earthquake came 
 The rumour that the foe was at the gates ; 
 And climbing a cathedral roof that night, 
 I saw the pitch-black distance sown with fire 
 Gleam phosphorescent like the midnight sea, 
 And heard at intervals mysterious sound, 
 Like far off tempest, or the Atlantic waves 
 Clashing on some great headland in a storm, 
 Come smother'd from afar. But, lingering yet, 
 I haunted the great City in disguise. 
 While silently the fatal rings were wound 
 Around about it by the Teuton hosts : 
 Still, as I am a soldier, saw no face 
 That look'd capitulation : rather saw 
 The knitted eyebrow and the clenched teeth. 
 The stealthy hand that fingered with the sword. 
 The eye that glanced as swift as hunger's doth
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 87 
 
 Towards the battlements. Then (for a voice 
 Was raised against my life) I sought Trochu, 
 Mine ancient schoolfellow and friend in arms, 
 And, though his brow darkened a moment's 
 
 space. 
 He knew me faithful, and reached out his hand 
 To save me. By his secret help I found 
 A place in a balloon, that, in the dark 
 Ere daylight, rose upon a moaning wind, 
 And drifted southward with the drifting 
 
 clouds ; 
 And as the white and frosty daylight grew. 
 And opening crimson as a rose's leaves 
 The clouds to eastward parted, I beheld 
 The imperial City, gables, roofs, and spires. 
 White and fantastic as a city of dream, 
 Gleam orient, while the muffled drums within 
 Sounded reveille ; then a flash and wreath 
 Of vapour broke across the outer line,
 
 88 
 
 NAPOLEON FALLEN 
 
 Where the black fortifications frowning rose 
 Ring above ring around the imperial gates. 
 And flash on flash succeeded with a sound 
 Most faint and lagging wearily behind. 
 Still all without the City seemed as husht 
 As sleep or death. But as the reddening 
 
 day 
 Scattered the mists, the tiny villages 
 Loomed dim ; and there were distant glim- 
 merings, 
 And far-off muffled sounds : yet little there 
 Showed the innumerable enemy, 
 Who snugly housed and canopied with stone 
 Lay hidden in their strength ; only the watch- 
 fire 
 Gleam'd here and there, only from place to 
 
 place 
 Masses ol shadow seem'd to move, and 
 
 light
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA, Sq 
 
 Was glittered dimly back from hidden 
 
 steel; 
 And, woefullest sight of all, miles to the 
 
 west, 
 Along the dark line of the foe's advance, 
 On the straight rim where earth and heaven 
 
 meet, 
 The forests blazed and to the driving clouds 
 Cast blood-red phantoms growing dim in 
 
 day. 
 Meantime, like one whirl'd in a dizzy dream, 
 Onward we drove below the driving cloud. 
 And from the region of the burning fire 
 And smouldering hamlet rose still higher, and 
 
 saw 
 The dim stars like to tapers burning out 
 Above the region of the nether storm. 
 And the illimitable ether growing 
 Silent and dark in the deep wintry dawn.
 
 90 NAPOLEON fallen: 
 
 Enter hastily a Messenger. 
 
 Messenger. 
 Most weighty news, my liege, from Italy. 
 
 Napoleon. 
 
 Yes? 
 
 Messenger. 
 
 Rome is taken. The imperial walls 
 Yawn where the cannon smote ; in the red 
 
 streets, 
 Romans embracing shout for Liberty ; 
 From Florence to Messina bonfires blaze, 
 And rockets rise and vivas fill the air ; • 
 And with the thunder in his aged ears. 
 Surrounded by his cold-eyed cardinals, 
 
 I 
 
 %
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 
 
 9f 
 
 Clutching his spiritual crown more close, 
 Trembling- with dotage, sits the grey-haired 
 
 Pope, 
 Anathematizing in the Vatican. \_Exif. 
 
 Officer. 
 
 Woe to the head on whom his curse shall fall, 
 For in the day of judgment it shall be 
 Better with Sodom and Gomorrah, Wait ! 
 This is the twilight ; red will rise the dawn. 
 
 Napoleon. 
 
 Peace, friend ; yet if it ease thy heart, speak on. 
 I would to God, I did believe in God 
 As thou dost. Twilight surely — 'tis indeed 
 A twilight — and therein from their fair 
 spheres
 
 92 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 Kings shoot like stars. How many nights of 
 
 late 
 The heavens have troubled been with fiery- 
 signs, i 
 With characters like monstrous hieroglyphs, 
 And the aurora, brighter than the day || 
 And red as blood, has burnt from west to 
 east. 
 
 Officer. 
 
 I do believe the melancholy air 
 Is full of pain and portent. 
 
 Napoleon. 
 
 AVould to God 
 I had more faith in God, for in this work 
 I fail to trace His hand ; but rather feel
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 93 
 
 The nether-shock of earthquake every\vhere 
 Shaking old thrones and new, those rear'd on 
 
 rock 
 As well as those on sand. All darkens yet, 
 And in that darkness, \vhile with cheeks of 
 
 snow 
 The affrighted people gaze at one another, 
 
 (The Teuton still, mouthing of Deity, 
 Works steadfastly to some mysterious end. 
 ;My heart was never Rome's so much as 
 now, 
 ^ Now, when she shares my cup of agony. 
 Agony ! Is this agony r then, indeed. 
 All life is agony. 
 
 ( 
 
 Officer. 
 
 Your Imperial Highness 
 Ts suffering ! Take comfort, Sire.
 
 94 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 
 
 Napoleon. 
 
 It is nought — 
 Only a passing spasm at the heart — 
 'Tis my disease, comrade ; 'tis my disease ! 
 So leave me : it is late ; and I would rest. 
 
 Officer. 
 iGod in his gracious goodness give thee health. 
 
 Napoleon. 
 
 Pray that He may ; for am I deeply sick — 
 Too sick for surgery — too sick for drugs — 
 Too sick for man to heal. 'Tis a complaint 
 Incident to our house ; and of the same 
 Mine imperial uncle died. \Exit Officer, 
 
 France in the dust, 
 With the dark Spectre of the Red above her !
 
 I 
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 95 
 
 Rome fallen ! Aye me, well may the face of 
 
 heaven 
 Burn like a fiery scroll. Had I but eyes 
 To read whose name is written next for doom ! 
 The Teuton's ? O the Serpent, that has bided 
 His time so long", and now has stabbed so deep! 
 Would I might bruise his head before I die ! 
 
 \ExiL 
 
 Nighf. Xapoleon sleeping. Chonis of 
 
 Spirits. 
 
 A Voice. 
 
 ^\^at shapes are ye whose shades darken his 
 rest this night r 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Cold from the grave we come, out of the dark 
 to the light.
 
 96 NAPOLEON FALLEN 
 
 A Voice. 
 
 Voices ye have that moan, and eyes ye have 
 
 that weep. 
 Ah, woe for him who feels such shadows 
 
 round his sleep ! 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Tho' thou wert buried and dead, still would 
 
 we seek and find thee, 
 Fly where thou wilt, thou shalt hear feet from 
 
 the tomb behind thee. 
 Sleep ? shall thy soul have sleep r Nay, but 
 
 it shall be shaken. 
 Gather around him there, spirits of earth and 
 
 air, trouble him till he awaken !
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 97 
 
 A Voice. 
 
 ^^l^o in imperial raiment, darkly frowning, 
 
 stand, 
 Laurel-leaves in their hair, sceptred, yet sword 
 
 in hand ? 
 
 Another Voice. 
 
 Who in their shadow looms, woman-eyed, 
 
 woe-begone. 
 And bares his breast to show the piteous 
 
 wounds thereon r 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 I Peace, they are kings ; they are crown'd ; 
 
 I kings, tho' their realms have departed ; 
 
 Realms of the grave they have, and they walk 
 in the same weary-hearted.
 
 98 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 
 
 Sleep ? Did their souls have sleep ? Nay, for 
 
 like his was their being. " 
 
 Gather around him there, spirits of earth and 
 
 air, wake him to hearing and seeing. f] 
 
 Spirit of Hortense. 
 
 Woe ! O ye shades unblest, 
 Leave ye my child to rest. 
 
 Leave me here weeping. 
 This night, at least, have grace, 
 See, the poor weary face 
 
 Child-like in sleeping. 
 
 Spirit of C^sar. 
 
 Greater than thou, I fell : thy day is o'er. 
 Thou reap the world with swords ! thou wear 
 the robe I wore !
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. <)() 
 
 Back to thy books and read again how, in his 
 
 hour of pride, 
 At the foot of Pompey's statue, slain by slaves, 
 
 Imperial Caesar died. 
 
 Spirit of Hortexse. 
 
 Woe ! From his bed depart. 
 Ye who first taught his heart 
 
 Bloody ambition. 
 Back ! he is God's in sleep ; 
 Ah, in his heart burn deep 
 
 Pain and contrition. 
 
 Spirit of Bonaparte. 
 
 Greater than thou, I fell ; die, and give place. 
 Thou take from my cold grave the glory and 
 the grace !
 
 lOO NAPOLEON FALLEN: 
 
 Thou rise victorious where I fell ! Back to 
 
 thy books, thou blind ! 
 Read how I watch'd the weary Sea, less vast 
 
 than my imperial mind. 
 
 Napoleon (m sleep). 
 
 Dost thou too frown, dark Spirit of our 
 
 house ? 
 Scorn be thy meed for scorn. Thou hadst 
 
 become 
 A theme for nameless bards, a lullaby 
 For country folk to rock their cradles with, 
 A sound, a voice, an echo of a name 
 Dying most melancholy. In my mouth 
 Thy name became a trumpet once again, 
 And woods and wilds, to earth's remotest 
 
 peaks, 
 Echoed " Napoleon." Cursed be the name, Ji 
 
 ■t 
 
 i,i
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. lOI 
 
 Cursed be thou, this day ! . . . O mother ! 
 mother ! 
 
 Spirit of Hortense. 
 
 Father in Heaven, they rise ! — 
 Spirits with dreadful eyes 
 
 Hither are creeping. 
 Thrice on his brow I write 
 Thy blessed Cross this night, 
 
 ^Moaning and weeping. 
 
 A Voice. 
 
 \\"hat spirit art thou, with cold still smile and 
 face like snow ? 
 
 Spirit. 
 
 Orsini ; and avenged. Too soon I struck the 
 blow.
 
 I02 NAPOLEON FALLEN 
 
 A Voice. 
 
 And thou, with bloody breast, and eyes that 
 roll in pain ? 
 
 Spirit. 
 I am that Maximilian, miserably slain. 
 
 A Voice. 
 
 And ye, O shadowy things, featureless, wild, 
 and stark ? 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 We are the nameless ones whom he hath 
 slain in the dark ! 
 
 4
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. I03 
 
 A Voice. 
 
 Ye whom this man hath doom'd, Spirits, are 
 ye all there ? 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Not yet ; we come, we come — we darken all 
 the air. 
 
 A Voice. 
 
 O latest come, and what are ye ? Why do ye 
 moan and call ? 
 
 Chorus, 
 
 O hush ! O hush ! we come to speak the 
 bitterest curse of all. 
 
 HORTENSE. 
 
 Woe ! — for the spirits wild, 
 Woman and man and child,
 
 I04 NAPOLEON FALLEN 
 
 Hither are creeping. 
 Thrice on his brow I write 
 Thy blessed Cross this night. 
 
 Moaning and weeping. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Ours is the bitterest curse of all ; — for we 
 Are Souls that perish'd, foully slain by thee. 
 Ah ! would that thou hadst slain our bodies 
 too, like theirs ! 
 We ate of shame and sorrow till we ceased, 
 We drank all poisonous things at thy foul 
 feast — 
 Back from the grave we come, with curses 
 
 deep, not prayers. 
 
 With Sin and Death our mothers' milk was 
 
 sour. 
 The womb wherein we grew from hour to hour
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 10 = 
 
 Gather'd pollution dark from the polluted 
 frame — 
 Beside our cradles naked Infamy 
 Caroused, and Lust sat smiling hideously — 
 We grew like evil weeds apace, and knew not 
 shame. 
 
 rWith incantations and with spells most 
 rank, 
 The fount of Knowledge where we might 
 I have drank, 
 
 And learnt to love the taste, was hidden from 
 L our eyes ; 
 
 And if we learn'd to spell out written 
 
 speech, 
 Thy slaves were by, and we had books to 
 teach 
 Falsehood and Filth and Sin, Blasphemies, 
 Scoffs, and Lies. 
 
 I
 
 fo6 NAPOLEON fallen: 
 
 We drank of poison, ev'n as flowers drink 
 
 dew; 
 We ate and drank of poison till we grew 
 Noxious, polluted, black, like that whereon 
 
 we fed ; 
 We never felt the light and the free wind — 
 Sunless we grew, and deaf, and dumb, and 
 
 blind — 
 How should we dream of God, souls that were 
 
 slain and dead ? 
 
 Love, with her sister Reverence, passed 
 
 our way 
 As angels pass, unseen, but did not stay — 
 We had no happy homes wherein to bid them 
 
 dwell ; 
 We turn'd from God's blue heaven with 
 
 eyes of beast,
 
 I 
 
 A LYRICAL DKA-MA. I07 
 
 "We heard alike the atheist and the priest, 
 And both these lied alike to smooth our 
 hearts for Hell. 
 
 Of some, both Soul and Body died; of 
 
 most. 
 The Body fatten'd on, while the poor ghost, 
 Prison'd from the sweet day, was withering 
 in woe ; 
 Some robed in purple quaff'd their fatal 
 
 cup. 
 Some out of rubied goblets drank it up — 
 We did not know God was ; but now, O God, 
 we know. 
 
 Ah woe, ah woe, for those thy sceptre 
 
 swayed, 
 Woe most for those whose bodies, fair 
 
 arrayed,
 
 Io8 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 
 
 Insolent, sat at ease, smiled at thy feet of 
 pride ; 
 Woe for the harlots, with their painted 
 
 bliss ! 
 Woe for the red wine-oozing lips they kiss ! 
 Woe for the Bodies that lived, woe for the 
 Souls that died ! 
 
 Lambs of thy flock, but oh ! not white and 
 
 fair ; 
 Beasts of the field, tamed to thy hand, we 
 
 were ; 
 Not men and women — nay, not heirs to light 
 
 and truth : 
 Some fattening, ate and fed; some lay at 
 
 ease ; 
 Some fell and linger'd of a long disease ; 
 But all look'd on the ground — beasts of the 
 
 field forsooth.
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. lOQ 
 
 It is too late — it is too late this night — 
 To bid us live again in the fair light ; 
 Back from the grave we come, with curses 
 deep, not prayers. 
 Ours is a darker doom than theirs, who died 
 Strewing with blood the pathway of thy 
 pride — 
 Ah, would that thou hadst slain our bodies 
 too, like theirs ! 
 
 Semi-Chorus I. 
 
 Tho' thou wert buried and dead, still would 
 
 they seek thee and find thee. 
 Fly where thou wilt thou shalt hear feet from 
 
 the grave behind thee. 
 
 HORTEXSE. 
 
 Woe ! woe ! woe !
 
 no NAPOLEON FALLEN: 
 
 Semi-Chorus II. 
 Ye who beheld dim light thro' the chink of 
 
 the dungeon gleaming, 
 And watch'd your shade on the wall, till it 
 
 took a sad friend's seeming ; 
 Ye who in dark disguise fled from the doom 
 
 and the danger, 
 And dragging a patriot's chain died in the 
 
 land of the stranger. 
 Men whom he set aside to die like beasts in 
 
 the traces ! 
 Women he set aside for the trade of polluting 
 
 embraces ! 
 Say, shall his soul have sleep ? or shall it be 
 
 darken'd and shaken ? 
 
 Chorus. 
 Gather around him there, spirits of earth and 
 air, trouble him till he awaken.
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. Ill 
 
 Napoleon [awakaiing). 
 
 Who's there r Who speaks ? — All silent. O 
 
 how slowly 
 Moveth the dark and melancholy night. 
 I cannot rest— I am too sick at heart — 
 I have had ill dreams. The inevitable 
 
 Eyes 
 Are watching, and the weary void of sleep 
 Has voices strangely sad. 
 
 [//<^ rises y and paces the chamber. 
 
 O those dark years 
 Of Empire ! He who tames the tiger, and 
 
 lies 
 Pillow'd upon its neck in a lone cave, 
 Is safer. Who could sleep on such a bed r 
 " Mine eyes were ever dry of the sweet dew 
 
 I
 
 112 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 
 
 God scatters on the lids of happy men ; 
 
 Watching with fascinated gaze the orbs, 
 
 Ring within ring of blank and bestial light, || 
 
 "Where the wild fury slept : seeking all arts 
 
 To soothe the savage instinct in its throes 
 
 Of passionate unrest ; with one hand holding 
 
 Sweet things within my palm for it to lap, 
 
 And with the other, held behind my back. 
 
 Clutching the secret steel : oft, lest the thing 
 
 Should fasten on its master, cunningly 
 
 Turning its wrath against the shapes that 
 
 moved 
 Outside its splendid lair ; until at last. 
 Let forth to the mad light of War, it sprang 
 Shrieking, and sought to rend me. O thou 
 
 beast ! 
 Art thou so wild this day ? and dost thou 
 
 thirst 
 To fix on thine imperial ruler's throat ?
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. II3 
 
 A\Tiy, I have bidden thee " down," and thou 
 
 hast crouch'd, 
 Tamely as any hound ! Thou shalt crouch yet, 
 And bleed with shamefuller stripes ! 
 
 Let me be calm, 
 Not bitter. 'Tis too late for bitterness. 
 Yet I could gnaw my heart to think how 
 
 France 
 Hath fail'd me ! nay, not France, but rather 
 
 those 
 Whom to high offices and noble seats 
 In France's name 1 raised. I bought their 
 
 souls — 
 What soul can power not buy ? — and, having 
 
 lost 
 The blessed measure of all human truth, 
 Being soulless, these betrayed me ; yea, 
 
 became
 
 114 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 
 
 A brood of lesser tigers, hungering 
 
 With their large eyes on mine. I did not 
 
 build 
 My throne on sand ; no, no, — on Lies and 
 
 Liars, 
 Weaker than sand a thousandfold ! 
 
 In this 
 I did not work for evil. Though my means 
 Were dark and vile perchance, the end I 
 
 sought 
 Was France's weal, and underneath my care 
 She grew as tame as any fatted calf. 
 I never did believe in that stale cry 
 Raised by the newsman and the demagogue, 
 Tho' for mine ends I could cry " Liberty ! " 
 As loud as anv man. The draff of men 
 Are as mere sheep and kine, with heads held 
 
 down 
 Grazing, or resting blankly ruminant.
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA, J I 
 
 These must be tended, must be shepherded. 
 
 But Frenchmen are as wild things scarcely- 
 tamed, 
 
 Brute-like yet fierce, mad too with some few 
 hours 
 
 Of rushing freely with an angry roar. 
 
 These must be awed and driven. By a 
 scourge 
 
 Dripping with sanguine drops of their own 
 blood, 
 
 I awed them : then I drove them : then in time 
 
 I tamed them. Fool! deeming them wholly 
 mine, 
 
 I sought to snatch a little brief repose ; 
 
 But with a groan they found me, and I woke ; 
 
 And, since they seem'd to suffer pain, I said, 
 
 '* Loosen the yoke a little," and 'twas done, 
 
 And they could raise their heads and gaze at 
 me ;
 
 it6 napoleon fallen 
 
 And the wild hunger deepen'd in their eyes, 
 While fascinated on my throne I sat, 
 Forcing a melancholy smile of peace. 
 O had I held the scourge in my right hand ! 
 Tighten'd the yoke instead of loosening ! 
 It had not been so ill with me as now. 
 But Pity found me with her sister Fear, 
 And lured me. He who sitteth on a throne 
 Should have no counsellers who come in 
 
 tears ; 
 But rather that still voice within his brain, 
 Imperturbable as his own cold eyes, 
 And viewless as his coldly flowing blood ; 
 Rather a heart as strong as the great heart 
 Driving the hot blood thro' a lion's thews ; 
 Rather a will that moves to its desire 
 As steadfast as the silent-footed cloud. 
 What peevish humour did my mother mix 
 With that important ichor of our race 
 
 I 
 
 I
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. II7 
 
 "Which, unpolluted, filled mine uncle's veins r 
 He lash'd the world's Kings to his triumph- 
 car, 
 And sat like marble while the fiery wheels 
 Dript blood beneath him : tho' the live earth 
 
 shriek'd 
 Below him, he was calm, and, like a god, 
 Cold to the eloquence of human tears, 
 Cold to the quick, cold as the light of stars, 
 Cold as the hand of Death on the damp 
 
 brow, 
 Cold as Death brooding on a battle-field 
 In the white after-dawn, — from west to east, 
 Royal he moved as the red wintry sun. 
 He never flatter'd Folly at his feet ; 
 He never sought to syrup Infamy; 
 He, when the martyrs curst him, drew around 
 
 him 
 The purple of his glory, and passed on
 
 ii8 NAPOLEON fallen: 
 
 Indifferently, like Olympian Jove. 
 
 There was no weak place in the steel he 
 
 wore, 
 Where woman's tongues might reach his 
 
 mighty heart 
 As they have reach'd at mine. O had I kept 
 A heart of steel, a heart of adamant ; 
 Had I been deaf to clamour and the peal 
 Of peevish fools ; had I for one strong hour 
 Conjured mine uncle's soul to mix with 
 
 mine, 
 Sedan had never slain me ! I am lost 
 By the damn'd implements mine own hands 
 
 wrought — 
 Things that were made as slavish tools of 
 
 peace. 
 Never as glittering weapons meet for war. 
 He never stoop'd to use such peaceful tools ! 
 But, for all uses.
 
 A I.VRICAL DRAMA. II9 
 
 ]\Iade the sword serve him — yea, for sceptre 
 
 and scythe ; 
 Nay more, for Scripture and for counsellor. 
 
 Yet he too fell. Early or late, all fall. 
 No fruit can hang for ever on the tree. 
 Daily the tyrant and the martyr meet 
 Naked at Death's door, with the fatal mark, 
 Both brows being branded. Doth the world 
 
 then slay 
 Only its anarchs r Doth the lightning flash 
 Smite Caesar and spare Brutus ? Nay, by 
 
 heaven ! 
 Rather the world keeps for its paracletes 
 Torture more subtle and more piteous doom 
 Than it dispenses to its torturers. 
 Tiberius, with his foot on the world's neck, 
 Smilcth his cruel smile and groweth gray. 
 Half dead already with the weight of years,
 
 V 
 
 I20 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 
 
 Drinketh the death he is too frail to feel, 
 While in his noon of life the Man Divine 
 Hath died in anguish at Jerusalem. 
 \^He opens a Life of Jesus and reads. A long pause. 
 
 Here too the Teuton works, crafty and slow, 
 
 Anatomizing, gauging, questioning, 
 
 Till that fair Presence which redeem'd the 
 
 world 
 Dwindles into a phantom and a name. 
 Shall he slay Kings, and spare the King of 
 
 Kings ? 
 In her fierce madness, France denied her God; 
 But the still Teuton doth destroy his God, 
 Coldly as he outwits an enemy. 
 Yet doth he keep the name upon his lips. 
 And, coldly dedicating the dull deed 
 To the abstraction he hath christen'd God, 
 To the creation of his cogent brain.
 
 A LYRICAL UK AM A. 121 
 
 Conjures against the blessed Nazarene, 
 
 That pallid apparition masculine, 
 
 That shining orb hemm'd in with clouds of 
 
 flesh ; 
 Till, darken'd with the woe of his own words, 
 The fool can turn to Wilhclm's wooden face 
 And Bismarck's crafty eyes, and see therein 
 Human regeneration, or at least 
 The Teuton's triumph mightier than Christ's. 
 Lie there, Iconoclast ! Thou art thrice a fool, 
 Who, having nought to set within its place 
 But civic doctrine and a naked sword, 
 Would lear from out its niche the piteous bust 
 Of Ilim whose face was Freedom's morning 
 
 star. 
 
 [ Takes up a second Book, and reads. 
 
 Mark, now, how speciously Thcolon:y, 
 Leaving the broken fragments of the Life
 
 122 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 
 
 Where the dull Teuton's hand hath scatter'd 
 
 them, 
 Takes up the cause in her high fields of air. 
 " Darkness had lain upon the earth like blood, 
 And in the darkness human things had 
 
 shriek'd 
 And felt for God's soft hand, and agonised. 
 But, overhead, the awful Spirit heard 
 Yet stirred not, on His throne. Then lastly, 
 
 One 
 Dropt like a meteor stone from suns afar, 
 And stirred and stretch'd out hands, and lived, 
 
 and knew 
 That He indeed had dropt from suns afar. 
 That He had fallen from the Father's breast. 
 Where He had slumber'd for eternities ; 
 Hither in likeness of a man He came — 
 He, Jesus, wander'd forth from heaven and 
 
 said.
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 12; 
 
 J 
 
 " * Lo, I, the deathless one, will live and die ! 
 Evil must suffer — Good ordains to suffer — 
 Our point of contact shall be suffering, 
 There will we meet, and ye will hear my 
 
 voice ; 
 And my low voice shall echo on thro' time, 
 And one salvation, proved in bloody tears. 
 Be the salvation of humanity.'" 
 
 Ah, old Theology, thou strikest home ! 
 
 " Evil must suffer — Good ordains to suffer " — 
 
 Says't thou r Did He then quaff His cup of 
 
 tears 
 Freely, who might have dash'd it down, and 
 
 ruled ? 
 The world was ready with an earthl}' crown. 
 And yet He wore it not. Ah, He was wise ! 
 Had He but sat ujjon a human throne. 
 With all the kingdom's beggars at His feet,
 
 124 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 
 
 And all its coffers open at His side, 
 
 He had died more shameful death, yea, He 
 
 had fallen 
 Even as the Caesars. Rule the world with 
 
 Love ? 
 Tame savage human nature with a kiss ? 
 Turn royal cheeks for the brute mob to smite? 
 He knew men better, and He drew aside, 
 Ordain'd to do and suffer, not to reign. 
 
 My good physician bade me search in books 
 
 For solace. Can I find it ? Verily, 
 
 From every page of all man's hand hath 
 
 WTit 
 
 A dark face frowns, a voice moans " Vanity ! " 
 There is one Book — one only — that for ever 
 Passeth the understanding and appeaseth 
 The miserable hunger of the heart —
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. I25 
 
 Behold it — written with the light of stars 
 By God in the beginning. 
 
 \_Looks forth, .i starry night. 
 
 I believe 
 God is, but more I know not, save but this, 
 He passeth not as men and systems pass, 
 For while all change, the Law by which they 
 
 change 
 Survives, and is for ever, being God. 
 Our sin, our loss, our misery, our death, 
 Are but the shadows of a dream : the hum 
 Within our ears, the motes within our eyes ; 
 Death is to us a semblance and an end, 
 But is as nothing to that central Law 
 Whereby we cannot die. 
 
 Yonder blue dome, 
 Gleaming with meanings mystically wrought, 
 Hath been from the beginning, and shall bo
 
 126 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 
 
 Until the end. How many awe-struck eyes 
 Have look'd and spelt one word — the name of 
 
 God, 
 And call'd it as they listed, Law, Fate, Change, 
 And marvell'd for its meaning till they died ; 
 And others came and stood upon their graves, 
 And read the same, and marvelling too, gave 
 
 place. 
 The Kings of Israel watch'd it with wild orbs, 
 Madden'd, and cried the Name, and drew the 
 
 sword. 
 Above the tented plain of Troy it bent 
 After the sun of day had set in blood. 
 The superstitious Roman look'd by night 
 And trembled. All these faded phantom- 
 like. 
 And lo ! where it remaineth, watch'd with 
 
 eyes 
 As sad as any of those this autumn night, —
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 127 
 
 The Higher Law writ with the light of Stars 
 By God in the beginning . . . 
 
 Let me sleep ! 
 Or I shall gaze and gaze till I grow wild, 
 And never sleep again. Too much of God 
 ^Maketh the heart sick. Come then forth, thou 
 
 charm, 
 Thou silent spell wrung from the blood-red 
 
 flower. 
 With power to draw the curtains of the soul 
 And shut the inevitable Eyes away. 
 
 [^Drinks a sleeping draught and lies down. 
 
 O mother, at thy knees I said a prayer — 
 Lead me not into temptation, and, O God, 
 Deliver me from evil. Is it too late 
 To murmur it this night r This night, O 
 
 (iod, 
 Whate'er Thou art and whercso'er Thou art,
 
 128 NAPOLEON FALLEN: 
 
 This night at least, when I am sick and fallen. 
 
 Deliver me from evil ! 
 
 \He sleeps. 
 
 Chorus of Citizens. 
 
 O thou with features dire, 
 Who crouchest at our gates this bloody day, 
 With God's Name on thy forehead burnt in 
 fire. 
 What art thou ? Speak, and say ! 
 
 What is thy kindred, monster ? Who thy 
 sire ? 
 Whose word wilt thou obey ? 
 
 God never made so black a thing as 
 
 thou, 
 God never wrote that name upon thy 
 brow ; 
 Thou art too foul for God, to whom we 
 pray.
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 12>) 
 
 I 
 
 Fatal thou broodest on our hearths, with eyes 
 Glazed in hunger only blood can sate. 
 Begone ! — within our breasts the sick heart 
 
 dies 
 To see thee crouch and wait : 
 O blasphemy of nature, at our cries 
 
 God cometh soon or late. 
 Famine, and Thirst, and Horror at thy back 
 Lie moaning ; Fire and Ruin mark thy track ; 
 Begone, and die, thou thing of Sin and 
 Hate! 
 Die now, ere once again 
 The sharp sob of the slain 
 Goes up the azure voids, and knocks at 
 Heaven's Gate. 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Christ shall arise. 
 Power and its vanity, 
 K
 
 130 NAPOLEON fallen: 
 
 Pride's black insanity, 
 Lust and its revelry, 
 Shall, with war's devilry. 
 Pass from humanity : 
 Christ shall arise. 
 
 Semi-Chorus I. 
 
 Kings shall pass like shadows from His 
 whiteness. 
 Swords be turn'd to scythes and reap the 
 wheat. 
 
 Semi-Chorus II. 
 
 Slaves that crawl'd round thrones shall fear 
 His brightness. 
 Thrones shall be as dust around His 
 feet. 
 
 I 
 
 X
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA, I3I 
 
 Chorus of Citizens. 
 
 How long-, O Lord, how long, 
 Shall we linger, frail and feeble as we 
 are ? 
 Thou art slow who shouldst be swift to 
 
 right our wrong, 
 Thou wert promised in our very cradle 
 song: 
 Thou hast come and gone above us like a 
 Star! 
 'Tis a story of old times that Thou art 
 strong ; 
 But Thou comest not, Thou comest not from 
 far : 
 And the cruel fall upon us in their throng, — 
 And we bleed beneath the tramping feet of 
 War.
 
 132 NAPOLEON fallen: 
 
 Semi-Chorus I. 
 
 Peace ! He shall arise ; be dumb and duteous ; 
 Listen, hush your wild hearts, and be wise. 
 
 Semi-Chorus II. 
 
 Sin shall look and die : He is so beauteous ; 
 Make your spirits pure to bear His eyes. 
 
 Chorus of the Dead. 
 
 Where we sleeping lie, where we sleeping lie, 
 
 We hear the sound, and our spirits cry ; 
 
 As we sleeping lie in the Lord's own Breast, 
 
 Calm, so calm, for the place is blest, 
 
 We, who died that this might be. 
 
 Souls of the great, and wise, and free ;
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 1 33 
 
 Souls that sung, and souls that sighed, 
 Souls that pointed to God and died ; 
 Souls of martyrs, souls of the wise ; 
 Souls of women with weeping eyes ; 
 Souls whose graves like waves of the sea 
 
 Cover the world from west to east ; 
 Souls whose bodies ached painfully, 
 
 Till they broke 'to prophetic moan and 
 ceased; 
 Souls that sleep in the gentle night. 
 We hear the cry and we see the light. 
 Did we die in vain r did we die in vain r 
 Ah ! that indeed were the bitterest pain ! 
 But no, but no, 'twere a Father's guilt 
 If a drop of our blood was vainly spilt. 
 Not a life, nay, not a breath, 
 liut killed some shape of terror and death ; — 
 And we see the light and we bless the cry. 
 Where we sleeping lie, where we sleeping lie.
 
 134 NAPOLEON fallen: 
 
 Semi-Chorus I. 
 
 Blest are ye who followed Him and feared not, 
 Yea, into the dark shadow of the tomb ! 
 
 Semi-Chorus II. 
 
 Woe for those who saw ye and revered not ; 
 
 Better they were formless in the womb ! || 
 
 Chorus. 
 
 Christ shall arise. 
 Scorning all vanity, 
 Sweetness and sanity. 
 Meekness and lowliness. 
 Shall to love's holiness 
 Shepherd humanity, 
 
 Christ shall arise.
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 135 
 
 Chorus of Citizens. 
 
 He Cometh late, this God ! 
 Promised for countless years, He cometh late. 
 Where shall He dwell r The cities of our 
 state 
 
 Are level with the sod. 
 Shall He upbuild them then? Meantime we 
 wait. 
 
 And see black footsteps where our mar- 
 tyrs trod. 
 He cometh late, forsooth He cometh late. 
 
 This promised Lord our God ! 
 Xor do we see the earth that He will claim, 
 
 Is riper yet than when He went away. 
 There are more ruins only, and the same 
 
 Are multiplied each day. 
 All lands are bloody, and a crimson flame 
 
 Eats Hope's poor heart away.
 
 l'^6 NAPOLEON FALLEN 
 
 AVhere shall we turn for peace ? whom shall 
 
 we trust for stay ? 
 The anarchs of the world still sit and sway 
 The hearts of men to evil ; — Hunger and 
 
 Thirst 
 INIoan at the palace door; and birds of 
 
 prey | 
 
 Still scream above the harvest as at first. 
 Should He then come at all,* 
 This God on whom ye call, 
 How should He dwell on earth ? w^ould He 
 
 not find it curst ? 
 
 Semi-Chorus I. 
 
 Nay, for the Lamb shall wrap the world in 
 whiteness ; 
 Nay, for the wise shall make it fair and 
 sweet. 
 
 y , 
 
 I
 
 A L Y R I C A L D R A M A. ] ; 
 
 J/ 
 
 Slaves and fools shall perish in the bright- 
 ness ! 
 Thrones shall be as dust around His feet ! 
 
 Semi-Chorus II. 
 
 Peace ! ye make a useless lamentation. 
 
 Peace ! ye wring your hands o'er things of 
 stone. 
 Comfort ! ye shall find a habitation 
 
 Fairer than the fairest overthrown. 
 
 Final Chorus, or Epode. 
 
 Comfort, O true and free. 
 
 Soon shall there rise for ye 
 A CITY fairer far than all ye plan ; 
 
 Built on a rock of strength. 
 
 It shall arise at length. 
 Stately and fair and vast, the CITY meet for 
 man !
 
 138 ' NAPOLEON FALLEN : 
 
 Towering to yonder skies, 
 
 Shall the fair City rise, 
 In the sweet dawning of a day more pure : 
 
 House, mart, and street and square. 
 
 Yea, and a Fane for prayer. 
 Fair, and yet built by hands, strong, for it 
 shall endure. 
 
 In the fair City then, 
 
 Shall walk white-robed men, 
 Wash'd in the river of peace that watereth it ; 
 
 Woman with man shall meet 
 
 Freely in mart and street. 
 At the great council-board woman with man 
 shall sit. 
 
 Hunger and Thirst and Sin 
 Shall never pass therein ;
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. 139 
 
 Fed with pure dews of love, children shall 
 grow ; 
 Nought shall be bought and sold, 
 Nought shall be given for gold. 
 All shall be bright as day, all shall be white 
 as snow. 
 
 There, on the fields around. 
 All men shall till the ground. 
 Corn shall wave yellow, and bright rivers 
 stream ; 
 Daily, at set of sun, 
 All, when their work is done, 
 Shall watch the heavens yearn down and the 
 strange starlight gleam. 
 
 In the fair City of men. 
 All shall be silent then, 
 While on a reverent lute, gentle and low, 
 Some holy Bard shall play
 
 140 NAPOLEON FALLEN : 
 
 Ditties divine, and say- 
 Whence those that hear have come, whither 
 in time they go. 
 
 I 
 
 No man of blood shall dare 
 
 Wear the white mantle there ; 
 No man of lust shall walk in street or mart ; 
 
 Yet shall the magdalen 
 
 Walk with the citizen ; 
 Yet shall the sinner grow gracious and pure of 
 heart. 
 
 Now, while days come and go, m 
 
 Doth the fair City grow. 
 Surely its stones are laid in sun and moon. 
 
 Wise men and pure prepare 
 
 Ever this City fair. 
 Comfort, O ye that weep : it shall arise full 
 soon.
 
 A LYRICAL DRAMA. I4I 
 
 When, stately, fair, and vast, 
 
 It doth uprise at last, 
 Who shall be King thereof, say, O ye wise r — 
 
 WTien the last blood is spilt, 
 
 A\lien the fair City is built, 
 Unto the throne thereof, a ^lonarch shall 
 arise. 
 
 Hearken, O pure and free, 
 
 When 'tis upbuilt for ye. 
 Out of the grave He shall arise again ; 
 
 He whose blest soul did plan 
 
 This the fair city of MAN, 
 In his white robes of peace, Christ shall 
 arise, and reign. 
 
 VIKTfB ASU CO., PRINTEKS, tllY KUAL), LONDOH.
 
 I
 
 WORKS BY ROBERT BUCHANAN. 
 
 yust published, crown ivo, price 65. 
 
 THE BOOK OF ORM 
 
 A PRELUDE TO THE EPIC. 
 By ROBERT BUCHANAN. 
 
 " The pieces are masterly. . . . There are passages which may challenge 
 comparison with the work of any living ^oci."— Literary ll'or/J. 
 
 " We thmk some of the work is, of its kind, as high as any the world has 
 yet seen. . . . Our object is chiefly to call careful attention to a volume 
 of poetry which, with some faults, is almost surcharged with beauty and 
 significance, wonderfully fine in workmanship, and entitled to the serious 
 study of readers who really care for poetry."— Illustrated Times. 
 
 "A book which will most certainly leave an impression upon the 
 younger minds of the present generation. . . . There is a sustained 
 beauty and simplicity. . . . The feeling is both deep and pure— the power 
 is undoubted." — H^esiminsier Rez'ie-cU. 
 
 "The whole section, 'Songs of Corruption,' is exquisite; but the 
 ' Dream of the World without Death ' seems to us to stand alone for 
 tenderness, for purity, and the trembling beauty of human affection find- 
 ing strange satisfaction in the very pcacefulness of gradual decay." — 
 British Quarterly Review. 
 
 " The wild, and tender, and ghostly treatment of the emblems of Nature, 
 a-s if she were, not what Wordsworth and his school found or made her, 
 but rather a mighty and mystic phantom scaring us with strange hiero- 
 glyphs of infinite meaning. . . . Taken as a whole, — and w<- must remem- 
 ber that the author himself asserts that this book is not only still partly 
 unfinislicd, but, when finished, only a prelude to another poem, which will 
 embodv more fully his conception of life,— the ' Hook of Orm ' is certainly 
 a striki'ng attempt to combine a quasi-Ossianic treatment of Nature with 
 a philosophy of rebellion rising into something like a X'antheistic vision of 
 the necessity of evil." — Spectator. 
 
 " Mr. Buchanan's genius has struck root into a new form of life and 
 feeling— subtle, delicate, and marvellously fair. . . . We shall look for- 
 w.ird with inu.-nsc interest to the ' Epic of Orm,' which is already promised. 
 If the prelude to the feast is so delicate and various, the feast itself must 
 prove surpassinjjly rich and delicious." — A'onioii/omiiit.
 
 "We are among the wannest admirers of Mr. Buchanan's genius, the 
 dawn of which we were not slow to discover and announce in these 
 columns. Nor do we for a moment dispute the remarkable power and 
 beauty to be found in 'The Book ot Orm.' But it appears to us to want 
 healthy feeling'. . . . The sonnets are very grand, with magnificent bits of 
 description dipped in a gloomy light of feeling and passion ; and the last 
 poem — ' The Vision of the Man Accurst ' — is really stupendous. Here, 
 though .the theme is big with the most awful issues, and raised to the 
 utmost peaks of daring speculation, the meaning is perfectly clear and 
 straightforward ; and nothing can be nobler than the intention, the moral, 
 and the way in which both are worked out." — Daily News. 
 
 " Musical intonation, graceful expression, fit choice of forcible and sig 
 nificant words, perfect command of rhythm and rhyme — all the literary 
 and mechanical characteristics of the best poetry — abound here. But the 
 claims of the book are considerably higher. . . . ' The Book of Orm ' may 
 be broadly described as an indignant half-articulate protest against the 
 disguised and distorted shape in which Man has so often presented God 
 to his fellow-men. The indignation reaches a wild and tempestuous, 
 almost, it might seem, a blasphemous pitch, in a scries of powerful com- 
 positions entitled ' Coruisken Sonnets,' singularly clear in their utterance 
 and close in their sequence, . . . Of those visions there are two — the 
 ' Dream of the World without Death ' and the ' Vision of the Man 
 Accurst ' — which for power and beauty deserve to rank with the highest 
 English poetry of the present or the past generation. In the first there is 
 a mari'ellous blending of pathos, profound sympathy, and powerful word- 
 painting. ... In the second poem there is a majesty and a beauty, a 
 teiiderness and deep teaching of love, which show Mr. Buchanan at the 
 very best and noblest manifestation of his undoubted poetic genius. . . . 
 ' The Book of Orm ' is a volume to be read and re-read with pleasure and 
 potent teaching ; and parts of it will long survive the generation which 
 saw its birth." — Daily Telegraph. 
 
 Crown 8vo, Revised Edition, price bs. 
 
 LONDON POEMS. 
 
 By ROBERT BUCHANAN. 
 
 " ' London Poems ' being, as their title denotes, the fruit of inspiration 
 derived from those, to unpoetic souls, most hopelessly prosaic streets, 
 which, to Mr. Buchanan and others like him, gifted with a sight beyond 
 that of the eyes, are full of such poetry as may be vainly sought among 
 the half-burnt ashes of the most glorious past. This poetry Mr. Buchanan 
 can not only realise for himself, but draw out for the benefit of those less 
 gifted with that keen and passionate insight. His versification, too, 
 flowing and musical as it is, has just that touch of ruggedness about it 
 which suits a theme the outward semblances of which have so little in 
 common with the beauty of its inner reality ; and possibly, were we asked
 
 to point to anv special token of his claim to a place in the front rank ot 
 
 rts, we couid hardly do bettor than draw attention to the subtle instinct 
 which a stray word, or expression, or turn of a phrase, is made to 
 temper the stately rhylhm of the verse to the homely ch.iracter of the 
 theme, and that so delicately as never to jar the car with the slijrhtest 
 hint of incongruity." — Church and Stotr Rex'iew. 
 
 " He has the rare power of treating such subjects without making them 
 too horrible, or, which is far worse, sweetening them till they arc nauseous 
 as well as shocking. He is quite aware that the tr;yiscript of misery and 
 suffering may be too literal : thus he has given in his ' Kdward Crowhurst ' 
 rather a softened than an exaggerated version of the actual history of poor 
 John Clare. Occasiemally he shows in his poems the critical side ot his 
 n.iture : the following remarkable verses prove tluat he h.is not studied 
 Nature, either .among hills or in cities, without pausing to cimtemplate 
 the reflex action of his studies on his own mind. . . . Mr. Huchanan is 
 always himselt ; never .i mere imitator, too versatile to be genuine and 
 original. He must be allowed a high rank among our living poets." — 
 Guiiri/i'itn. 
 
 " To do this was a chivalrous thing for a poet. It is c.isy to speak 
 grandly of the grander themes, but it is proverbially dilhcult to be dignified 
 about the undignified topics. Wordsworth has often enough come to the 
 verge of baby- talk in this direction. Huchanan has gone in the s.ame 
 direction, described realities, and made them touching and memorable. 
 ... It would be a good thing if this poem (' Liz ') set men to simplify the 
 marriage laws, and to make the expense of marriage nominal to the 
 poorest." — Evangelical \\ 'itneis. 
 
 "The 'London Poems' thus introduced are thoroughly original in 
 conception, have much true dramatic power, and disclose a wonderful 
 knowledge ot the human heart. Some have the deepest pathos ; some 
 arc cheerful and beautiful exceedingly ; and one or two are almost over- 
 whelming by their very simplicity and sad truth." -Xonconforniist. 
 
 " Few writers so wholly unsensational, and whose poetry owes none of 
 its popularity to the weird and wild obscurity of its thought nor to the 
 glitter of its diction, have established a reput.ation equal to Mr. Huchanan 
 in so short a time as that which has passed since his first acknowledged 
 publication, ' Undertones,' took the reading and poetry-loving public by 
 surp ise. . • . The excjuisite simplicity of these poems has rarely been 
 surpassed. . . . Here, if anj-where, is, if we mistake not, true poetry, the 
 outpourings of a heart instinct with love and sympathy for its fellows, 
 which sees the image of its Maker in every human form, and recognises a 
 brother's claim in every soul, however stained by sin, or burdened by the 
 trials of life. A brave volume of poetry, the heart utterances stern and 
 yet tender of a true poet." — Churchman, 
 
 "London Poems' will win him a world-wide fame, and lift him high 
 into the ranks of British poets. It will po.ssess an interest, too, drawn 
 from the boldness of its design, which can only be enhanced by a perusal 
 of its contents. ... A rich production, based on simple materials. . . . 
 /Vj a poet combining simplicity with power, and a wonderful talent for 
 giving to his subjects the lorm of reality and life, .\Ir. Huchanan is un- 
 surpassed. Among contemporaneous or recent writers he is unequalled." 
 — Court Circular. 
 
 " Wc may lnok upon his recent volume as conclusive evidence of the 
 extent and nature ol his power, and approach if from what point we will, 
 
 L
 
 it is difficult to avoid being struck with the wealth that is displayed on 
 every side. . . . Its contents are as noteworthy for gentleness and worth 
 of moral, as for tenderness, delicacy, and poetical grace ; and it is im- 
 possible to read the stories it contains without being struck with the poet's 
 reverential love of nature, his admirable power of poetical expression, and 
 his deep insight into the most secret corners of the human heart." — 
 Sunday Times. 
 
 "What Wordsworth called 'the power of hills' is on him. . . . Even 
 when, as in one or two of the poems, and perhaps the finest of them, the 
 main subject of the poem is the emotion of the person supposed to be 
 speaking — even then the emotion expressed is not self-respecting, and 
 therefore hard and argumentative, as generally with Browning, but is all 
 centred on some external object of love and solicitude. Thus the two 
 poems called 'Liz' and 'Nell,' the finest perhaps in the volume, and, in 
 their way, some of the finest poems of the present generation, are the 
 expressions of the feelings of two poor London women, the one dying after 
 the birth of her first child — born not in wedlock, but still in what the 
 woman regarded as wedlock, with Joe, a costermonger ; the other, such as 
 the woman who lived with poor Wright (who was hanged for murder) might 
 have spoken, had he been hanged for the murder oi^ some one other than 
 herself, instead of, as it happened to be in that case, that she herself was the 
 victim of his habit of drinking. We do not mean, of course, that either of 
 these beautiful poems, — poems unique in their mixture of city-life realism 
 with lyrical beauty, — could actually have been spoken by the women whom 
 they delineate. ' Art,' as Mr. Buchanan says, with a somewhat different 
 drift, in the very fine poem called ' London, 1864,' ' works her end not by 
 giving, but by cruelly taking away ;' and she has taken away accordingly 
 irom the bizarre language in which these poor creatures would probably 
 have endeavoured to clothe the thoughts that arose in them, all that hid, 
 instead of really expressing, those thoughts, and left two poems such as 
 we should not find it easy to match in any language, for making us see — 
 
 ' Flowing beneath the blackness of the streets, 
 The current of sublimer, sweeter life. 
 Which is the source of human smiles and tears, 
 And melodised, becomes the strength of song.' 
 
 " Mr. Buchanan takes as his motto Goethe's fine lines ; and nobly, on 
 the whole, does he work out the idea so often reiterated in our generation, 
 so seldom successfully applied, at least in poetry. No volume of poems 
 has appeared for many years in London, which so certainly announces a 
 true poetic fame." — Spectator. 
 
 " The interest roused by these domestic dramas is never local and 
 narrow, but rather human and broad. What appears to have struck 
 Mr. Buchanan in the tragedy of London life, is the sin into which poor 
 men and women fall from habit, from necessity, from affection — not from 
 vicious desire ; and to this error in the passions, which is seldom or never 
 a misleading of the passions, he gives a singularly intense and tragic 
 utterance . . . while he never tampers with the sin and shame, the poor 
 human frailties get such hearing for themselves, before just and true men, 
 as they might never gain from their own halting powers of speech. It 
 surely is a gain for human nature when genius puts a new interpretation 
 on the things which seem amiss. . . . This service of humanity against 
 itself (so to say) is one of the highest ministries on earth." — Aihenceuftt. 
 
 " One of the boldest experiments that has been attempted in modem 
 poetry — the boldest certainly since Wordsworth dared to strike precedents
 
 in the face, and sinij of subjects which had been nimost wholly net;locted 
 in a lang^ia^c which many of the critical oracles hated and despised. Wc 
 suspect that Mr. Huchanan's experiment will be regarded as far more 
 audacious than that of Wordsworth. . . . Most bravely has he sunjj, but 
 has he sung well, truly, and beautifully? These are the questions to be 
 salved; and those who have n-ad his poems from the Dejfinning will 
 readily acknowledjje that they contain a most satisfactory answer. . . . 
 He enters the city, and, heedless of many warninjj voices which mutter of 
 failure, he grapples with some of the most profoundly traffic phases of 
 modem life — sinful, miserable, hopeless phases which the daintier muse 
 would shudder even to name. Kut of all living poets Mr. Huchanan is, 
 we think, the most courageous and uncowardly. In a moral point of 
 view, indeed, his boldness amounts to a distinct originality. This, too, 
 not merely because it is unique, but because it is allied to that kind ot 
 intense Famestness which springs from a deep sense of the value of human 
 rectitude and hum.m puritv. . . . He seems to have got language and 
 imagination thoroughly under the government of art. He has conquered 
 conventionality, and can look life in all its phases straight in the face, 
 without losing faith in human nature, or reverence for what is divine and 
 holy. These are conquests which are indispensable to the poet, and which 
 the highest poets alone can thoroughly make." . . . — Glasgow Daily 
 Herald. 
 
 " They are in their subject so pathetic — so repelling, one might almost 
 say ; in their realism so pre-Kaphaelite, and yet in their poetic treatment 
 so delicately and tenderly artistic, that one cannot choose but wonder and 
 admire and be sad over them. . . . There is a deep human interest at the 
 heart of nearly all Mr. Huchanan's poems which would give them strength 
 to live and move even if there were less of the genuine spirit of song in 
 them than there actually is. Ihis volume will make its mark. Once 
 opened, it is not easily to be laid aside ; once read, it is not to be for- 
 gotten. ' — .\foming S/ar. 
 
 " ' London Poems ' we can neither analyse nor dcseribe, simply for want 
 of space. Hut the design of the poet — a most noble and beautiful design 
 — becomes distinctly visible as soon as we have got over the first impression 
 of wonder at the largeness of his intelligence, his power of dramatic indi- 
 vidualisation (so to speak), the beneficent daring with which he paints, the 
 
 fenerous humanitv of his painting, and the originality of his music. . . . 
 he writings of ^tr. Huchaiian, however, present to the most careful, as 
 well as to the most superficial obser\ation, every note or characteristic 
 of the true poet ; and when we observe how flexible and deep are his 
 sympathies with all that is human (take ' Attorney .Sneak,' ' Liz,' ' Nell,' 
 and ' Ihe .Starling'), wc mav well slide into the use of the adjective 
 ' alarming,' in speaking of such a poet. If this is only the ' spring of the 
 arch, what is its cur\e to be.' We may well rejoice, meanwhile, in the 
 prospect that wc are to have a very great poet." — Illustrated Times. 
 
 " Mr. Buchanan, in his ' London Poems,' has won a nobler crown, 
 watered with human tears. Every story that he tells appeals to the heart, 
 and truth speaks in every line. To attempt tr) sing the wrong and suffering 
 of the poor is nobler, we believe, than to tinkle Apollo's own Ivre. Hut to 
 »ing them with suc< essful power is an achievement indeed. Extracts can 
 do no justice to the book ; but we make a few quotations, rather for the 
 k.'tkc of our rea<iers, who may be attracted by such crumbs>to a rich feast. 
 One of the finest poems, 'Liz,' is full of gems. What a depth of sad 
 philosophy there is in the words of the poor coster-girl, true to <leath to 
 the man who is a husband to her ! . . . 'Nell ' is anothci voice of poverty
 
 -^1 
 
 like 'Liz,' stirring the inmost heart. 'Lang-ley Lane,' and the 'Linnet,' 
 are charmingf city idyls; and ' Attorney Sneak,' and the 'Starling,' are 
 fine satires — the last that strangest satire, a sorrowful one. The ' Little 
 Milliner ' is a pure, wholesome love-tale that is simply delicious. To sum 
 the matter up, we assert — and such an assertion would not be incon- 
 siderately printed in this journal — that Mr. Buchanan's 'London Poems' 
 are worthy of a place in the heart with the ' Song of the Shirt ' and the 
 ' Bridge of Sighs.' " — Fitii. 
 
 " These ' London Poems,' and the poems which have preceded them 
 from the same pen, are notable contributions to the poetical literature of 
 our age. Their author shows independence and originality, and has, 
 besides, a high sense of his vocation, which reveals itself in the purpose 
 and spirit of everything he writes. It is because they picture what is 
 beautitul and what is terrible in the hard life which so many thousands of 
 our neighbours have allotted to them, that we think so highly of these 
 poems. It is no small thing to find one so gifted deliberately setting him- 
 self to the study of what most people think is almost wholly unlovable and 
 making that the subject of song. The success attained is altogether 
 deserved." — Working Matt. 
 
 "The poet does noble work in the cause of suffering humanity, when 
 out of all that is on the surface repulsive in poverty, and base and brutal in 
 ignorance, he extracts the redeeming goodnesses, and shows the great 
 human heart still at work where, to the sight of the dull surface spectator, 
 there is savagery, and squalor, and moral death. There is no danger in such 
 teachings as are conveyed to the world in the utterance of a true genius 
 and a Christian soul, let thern be of the basest, the lowest of God's creatures 
 that ever breathed. . . . He will live, we trust, to hear thanks given to him 
 from far and wide ; for his stories of London byways are sweet, sad sermons 
 (unlike most sermons formally preached from pulpits), that will touch the 
 hearts of men and women, and call up generous tears and teach charity 
 of thought to many who have been wont to pass by lanes and courts with 
 averted face, deeming them only foul abiding-places of unmixed wicked- 
 ness." — Lloyd's Newspaper. 
 
 " He has seen that underlying all that is dull and prosaic in ordinary 
 London life, there is an element of the truest romance ; that even amidst 
 its scenes of degradation and wretchedness, there are played out dramas 
 marked by the grandest passion, and full of the most tragic interest ; and 
 he has felt that the poet is fulfilling his own high mission when, by the 
 portraiture of such scenes he awakens the feelings of the more favoured 
 half of society on behalf of those whose sins they brand with severest 
 reprobation, and whose sorrows they rarely seek to comprehend or relieve. 
 This is the end which he lias evidently sought in the exquisite poems which 
 make up the greater part of this volume. They are beautiful in their con- 
 ceptions of character and life, in the varied images by which they are 
 studded, in the homage which they everywhere render to real goodness, 
 but beautiful above all in the natural and tender pathos by which they are 
 characterised throughout." — Patriot. 
 
 " However unrefined, his personages are never offensive, prosaic, or 
 commonplace at the moment when he allows us to see them, whatever they 
 may be at other times. Simple and few as may be his incidents, the poet 
 generally selects tlem so that they shall be such as to extract Irom them 
 the very essence^and aroma of the characters brought into play ; the tragic, 
 pathetic, lovable, or pitiable elements lying down at the root of the simplest 
 and most ordinary natures. And in the person of one whose perception is 
 rendered sensible and delicate by deep sympathy or interest, he brings out
 
 all the subtler features and manners of the situation with rare and fineness 
 of touch. . . . One more remark we must make — that the moral atmo- 
 sphere of this book seems, to us, thorouglily healthy, thou);h there is no 
 preachin)^ in it; and the morality is not pharisaic or merely conventional. 
 But we rise from the perusal of it with larger, kindlier, less artificial, and 
 more hop<-ful views ot our common nature, uecause we have been looking 
 at it throuj^h the eves of one who sees deep and truly. . . . We record our 
 conviction that if Nlr. Uuchanan writes no more he will have permanently 
 enriched Knijlish literature by much that he has already accomplished." — 
 Britiih Quarterly Rcvu-iu. 
 
 " The realistic treatment is exacting in its demands down to the smallest 
 details, and the temptation is to a spurious realism, to ' the truth that looks 
 the truth' (to use a fine phrase ot Mr. Buchanan's apart from its meaninir). 
 Mr. Huchanan seizes upon a form of life, and strives to reproduce it, as ho 
 sees it, with the sincerity which a (jreat writer insists upon as the very life 
 and soul of literature. The forms ol lite upon which he seizes are of course 
 determined by h's sympathies, and these have been profoundly stirred to 
 pity and to indignation by the massive misery of London life. In ' Liz,' 
 ana 'Nell,' and 'Jane Lewson,' he seized upon three tj-pical forms of that 
 miser)' growinij out of poverty, crime, and what may be called repression 
 — a fearful and unestimated source of sufferinjj always most dense in the 
 crush of citi<-s. Hut then, says the idealist, why does he so often seize 
 on what is unlovely and paintul .•• Hut has he not striven to wring out of 
 them a nobler beauty, a higher delight ? There are thousands of such lives 
 as those of ' Liz ' and ' Nell ' in London. 1 hey arc facts, and as such we 
 cannot get rid of them. We must regard them somehow. We may take 
 them hardly and coldly, frown at their sin, and remain unmoved at their 
 misery, and call our callosity conscience: or, more degrading still, we 
 may take them lightly .ind carelessly, and pass them b)' on the other side, 
 with a smile and a shrug. . . . That he has phrased the truths of this life 
 boldly and made them beautiful we feel profoundly." . . . — Scotsman. 
 
 Enlarged Edition, G.\. 
 
 UNDERTONES 
 
 By ROBERT BUCHANAN, 
 
 " The new edition contains new work, and the new work has a value ot 
 its own. Not only have little touches of warmth and colour been laid on 
 the canvas in many places, perlecting the verse rather than changing it; 
 but one noble and beautitul poem has been added to the ' L ndertones.' 
 Tbii new poem is called the ' .Syren.' It tells the story of a life with weird 
 and wondrous power. . . . Shall we attempt to moralise the talc .' In 
 tucn a poem imagination is put to some ol its highest uses. It is a rare 
 expression of the poet's wealth that a poem so full of genius should have 
 been flung, all but unnoticed, into a new edition." — Attienuiim. 
 
 " Great intelligence, fine workmanship, and dramatic power almost 
 unequalled in tins ball tcnturj-." — JitintrateJ Tunes.
 
 8 
 
 Enlarged Edition, crown %vo. price 6*. 
 
 IDYLS AND LEGENDS 
 OF INVERBURN. 
 
 By ROBERT BUCHANAN. 
 
 " One of the most charming volumes of poetic narrative that we know." 
 —Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 " How sweet and rare is such music ! We can but urge our readers to 
 g-et this volume for themselves. All these pictures of Scottish life are full 
 of the splendour of a rich imagination ; but ' Willie Baird ' is too sweetly 
 sad for such poor praise as we can give it." — ^o/in Bull. 
 
 In preparation. 
 
 SELECTION FROM THE 
 POETICAL WORKS 
 
 Of ROBERT BUCHANAN. 
 
 STRAHAN & CO., 56, LUDGATE HILL. 
 
 < 
 
 I
 
 To he published immediately, crown %vo. 
 
 BALLADS OF LIFE, 
 
 ETC. 
 
 By ROBERT BUCHAXAX. 
 
 Also, Cheap Edition, crown ivo. 
 
 MEG BLANK; 
 
 AND OTHER TALES IX VERSE. 
 By ROBERT BUCHAXAX. 
 
 STRAHAX & CO., 5O, LUDGATE HILL.
 
 i c ^ if'*' ^ 
 
 s H ^M ii <rx 
 
 — ^ \> ti U 
 
 TO 
 
 i 
 
 SEQUEL TO THE "BOOK OF ORM." 
 
 In preparation. 
 
 AN EPIC POEM. 
 
 By ROBERT BUCHANAN. 
 
 STRAHAN & CO., 56, LUDGATE HILL.
 
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