NAPOLEON, AND THE IRON CROWN.

NAPOLEON, AND THE IRON CROWN.

BY GRENVILLE MELLEN.

BY GRENVILLE MELLEN.

BY GRENVILLE MELLEN.

He sat with haughty men about his throne,Himself the greatest king. The monarchyThat he held o’er the nations was his own.It spoke in that broad brow and cloudless eye—It was the monarchy of soul, that beamedFrom every chiseled feature—till command,With a strange power upon the spirit, seemedTo speak as with a voice from loftier land;And each who heard it, tho’ he wore a crown,To that great mien and tone of royalty bent down!It was a golden crown—its iron bandThe brows had girdled of a race of kings;He bore it to his own with his white hand,As some ringed bauble of those weary thingsGreat hearts despise—e’en when they spell the worldWith their poor lustre. As he lifted it,His pallid lip with pride imperial curled,And his large shadowy eye with fierceness lit—“Godgave it me. Beware who touches,” fellOn the helmed ears around him, like a signal bell!It had been lifted to the warrior headOf the whole line of Lombardy; and nowIt towered above the marbles of the deadUpon the unchanging paleness of a browThat frowned on worlds in mastery. It shoneWith sapphire and with emerald without,In bravery of its radiance alone:Within that iron band went dark about,Untouched by grayling Time; tho’ centuriesHad fled ere yet that crown gleamed o’er Napoleon’s eyes.And how tradition gathered as you gazed!What relic of such holiness has manBeheld, with spirit silenced and amazed,Since awful story of the past began!It was the “Iron Crown” that from the nailOf the red Cross on Calvary, for kingsWas fashioned thus! And as we read the taleE’en now, some memory like an echo ringsThro’ the astonished heart, until we feelA reverence with the mystery about us steal!Crown of the Crucifixion! O that He,On whose aspiring brow it sat, had feltAnd fought the spirits of his Destiny!Then had a palsied world beheld him meltIn tears for mortals, where he strode in blood,And shrieked for conquest. Then his loftier pathHad been above the dashing of that floodThat broke about the highway of his wrath,And Glory, like an angel, beckoned onTo summits nobler than the proudest that he won!O, had he felt that that which then did bindHis beating temples with its iron band,Might once, indeed, of that Immortal Mind,That gladdened Earth, have pierced the symbol hand;Had vision wafted him to those dim years,When Christ was bowing to the Agony,And pouring upon Man his farewell tears,Ere His triumphal parting for the sky—What then had been the story of thine eye,Than tongues more eloquent, O “Child of Destiny!”Then, when the trumpet brattled with his name,In the mad morning of his opening days,And his best music was the voice of Fame,Merging each accent of a lowlier praise—How changed along the ice-path of that land,The mountain-barrier of an empire, then,Had that stern spirit strode—the loud commandSunk to that suasion that makes captive men,By its great moral harmony, and poursNew light from that far fount it draws from, and adores!Then—ere the earthquake summons of red WarHad lured him to that passion-field, where Man,Wild as the wild things, oft, he battles for,Ended in blackness what in blood began—Forth, with his pilgrim-staff, and book, and prayer,From citadel to wilderness, his wayHad lain through paths of Solitude and Care.The forest midnight and the glare of day—Proclaiming to the world, with prophet tongue,The Heaven-commissioned histories that round him rung!Then had he crushed the Conq’ror to the dust—And trod the dabbled sword beneath his feet—Cast the crown downward as a thing accurst,And fled as pestilence the monarch’s seat!Then had the gilded helm and warrior steedBeen banished, as the necromance of dreams—The sceptre spurned as some unwelcome reed,Nor clutched as the gemmed wonder that it seems!Then had the world seen rest—and with its yearsVirtue and Light had come, whose coming asked no tears!Then had that mighty creature, that no prayerCould stay upon his mountain-march to winAll that he dreamt of—for no mercy thereWould breathe her whisper mid the tramp and dinOf shaking armies—with a reverence, then,Had he looked up to God, and asked of HeavenWhat in his broad companionship with Men,Of loftier Duty with his Power was given—What, with a mind so pregnant of the skies,All Earth might look for from its hallow’d energies!

He sat with haughty men about his throne,Himself the greatest king. The monarchyThat he held o’er the nations was his own.It spoke in that broad brow and cloudless eye—It was the monarchy of soul, that beamedFrom every chiseled feature—till command,With a strange power upon the spirit, seemedTo speak as with a voice from loftier land;And each who heard it, tho’ he wore a crown,To that great mien and tone of royalty bent down!It was a golden crown—its iron bandThe brows had girdled of a race of kings;He bore it to his own with his white hand,As some ringed bauble of those weary thingsGreat hearts despise—e’en when they spell the worldWith their poor lustre. As he lifted it,His pallid lip with pride imperial curled,And his large shadowy eye with fierceness lit—“Godgave it me. Beware who touches,” fellOn the helmed ears around him, like a signal bell!It had been lifted to the warrior headOf the whole line of Lombardy; and nowIt towered above the marbles of the deadUpon the unchanging paleness of a browThat frowned on worlds in mastery. It shoneWith sapphire and with emerald without,In bravery of its radiance alone:Within that iron band went dark about,Untouched by grayling Time; tho’ centuriesHad fled ere yet that crown gleamed o’er Napoleon’s eyes.And how tradition gathered as you gazed!What relic of such holiness has manBeheld, with spirit silenced and amazed,Since awful story of the past began!It was the “Iron Crown” that from the nailOf the red Cross on Calvary, for kingsWas fashioned thus! And as we read the taleE’en now, some memory like an echo ringsThro’ the astonished heart, until we feelA reverence with the mystery about us steal!Crown of the Crucifixion! O that He,On whose aspiring brow it sat, had feltAnd fought the spirits of his Destiny!Then had a palsied world beheld him meltIn tears for mortals, where he strode in blood,And shrieked for conquest. Then his loftier pathHad been above the dashing of that floodThat broke about the highway of his wrath,And Glory, like an angel, beckoned onTo summits nobler than the proudest that he won!O, had he felt that that which then did bindHis beating temples with its iron band,Might once, indeed, of that Immortal Mind,That gladdened Earth, have pierced the symbol hand;Had vision wafted him to those dim years,When Christ was bowing to the Agony,And pouring upon Man his farewell tears,Ere His triumphal parting for the sky—What then had been the story of thine eye,Than tongues more eloquent, O “Child of Destiny!”Then, when the trumpet brattled with his name,In the mad morning of his opening days,And his best music was the voice of Fame,Merging each accent of a lowlier praise—How changed along the ice-path of that land,The mountain-barrier of an empire, then,Had that stern spirit strode—the loud commandSunk to that suasion that makes captive men,By its great moral harmony, and poursNew light from that far fount it draws from, and adores!Then—ere the earthquake summons of red WarHad lured him to that passion-field, where Man,Wild as the wild things, oft, he battles for,Ended in blackness what in blood began—Forth, with his pilgrim-staff, and book, and prayer,From citadel to wilderness, his wayHad lain through paths of Solitude and Care.The forest midnight and the glare of day—Proclaiming to the world, with prophet tongue,The Heaven-commissioned histories that round him rung!Then had he crushed the Conq’ror to the dust—And trod the dabbled sword beneath his feet—Cast the crown downward as a thing accurst,And fled as pestilence the monarch’s seat!Then had the gilded helm and warrior steedBeen banished, as the necromance of dreams—The sceptre spurned as some unwelcome reed,Nor clutched as the gemmed wonder that it seems!Then had the world seen rest—and with its yearsVirtue and Light had come, whose coming asked no tears!Then had that mighty creature, that no prayerCould stay upon his mountain-march to winAll that he dreamt of—for no mercy thereWould breathe her whisper mid the tramp and dinOf shaking armies—with a reverence, then,Had he looked up to God, and asked of HeavenWhat in his broad companionship with Men,Of loftier Duty with his Power was given—What, with a mind so pregnant of the skies,All Earth might look for from its hallow’d energies!

He sat with haughty men about his throne,Himself the greatest king. The monarchyThat he held o’er the nations was his own.It spoke in that broad brow and cloudless eye—It was the monarchy of soul, that beamedFrom every chiseled feature—till command,With a strange power upon the spirit, seemedTo speak as with a voice from loftier land;And each who heard it, tho’ he wore a crown,To that great mien and tone of royalty bent down!

He sat with haughty men about his throne,

Himself the greatest king. The monarchy

That he held o’er the nations was his own.

It spoke in that broad brow and cloudless eye—

It was the monarchy of soul, that beamed

From every chiseled feature—till command,

With a strange power upon the spirit, seemed

To speak as with a voice from loftier land;

And each who heard it, tho’ he wore a crown,

To that great mien and tone of royalty bent down!

It was a golden crown—its iron bandThe brows had girdled of a race of kings;He bore it to his own with his white hand,As some ringed bauble of those weary thingsGreat hearts despise—e’en when they spell the worldWith their poor lustre. As he lifted it,His pallid lip with pride imperial curled,And his large shadowy eye with fierceness lit—“Godgave it me. Beware who touches,” fellOn the helmed ears around him, like a signal bell!

It was a golden crown—its iron band

The brows had girdled of a race of kings;

He bore it to his own with his white hand,

As some ringed bauble of those weary things

Great hearts despise—e’en when they spell the world

With their poor lustre. As he lifted it,

His pallid lip with pride imperial curled,

And his large shadowy eye with fierceness lit—

“Godgave it me. Beware who touches,” fell

On the helmed ears around him, like a signal bell!

It had been lifted to the warrior headOf the whole line of Lombardy; and nowIt towered above the marbles of the deadUpon the unchanging paleness of a browThat frowned on worlds in mastery. It shoneWith sapphire and with emerald without,In bravery of its radiance alone:Within that iron band went dark about,Untouched by grayling Time; tho’ centuriesHad fled ere yet that crown gleamed o’er Napoleon’s eyes.

It had been lifted to the warrior head

Of the whole line of Lombardy; and now

It towered above the marbles of the dead

Upon the unchanging paleness of a brow

That frowned on worlds in mastery. It shone

With sapphire and with emerald without,

In bravery of its radiance alone:

Within that iron band went dark about,

Untouched by grayling Time; tho’ centuries

Had fled ere yet that crown gleamed o’er Napoleon’s eyes.

And how tradition gathered as you gazed!What relic of such holiness has manBeheld, with spirit silenced and amazed,Since awful story of the past began!It was the “Iron Crown” that from the nailOf the red Cross on Calvary, for kingsWas fashioned thus! And as we read the taleE’en now, some memory like an echo ringsThro’ the astonished heart, until we feelA reverence with the mystery about us steal!

And how tradition gathered as you gazed!

What relic of such holiness has man

Beheld, with spirit silenced and amazed,

Since awful story of the past began!

It was the “Iron Crown” that from the nail

Of the red Cross on Calvary, for kings

Was fashioned thus! And as we read the tale

E’en now, some memory like an echo rings

Thro’ the astonished heart, until we feel

A reverence with the mystery about us steal!

Crown of the Crucifixion! O that He,On whose aspiring brow it sat, had feltAnd fought the spirits of his Destiny!Then had a palsied world beheld him meltIn tears for mortals, where he strode in blood,And shrieked for conquest. Then his loftier pathHad been above the dashing of that floodThat broke about the highway of his wrath,And Glory, like an angel, beckoned onTo summits nobler than the proudest that he won!

Crown of the Crucifixion! O that He,

On whose aspiring brow it sat, had felt

And fought the spirits of his Destiny!

Then had a palsied world beheld him melt

In tears for mortals, where he strode in blood,

And shrieked for conquest. Then his loftier path

Had been above the dashing of that flood

That broke about the highway of his wrath,

And Glory, like an angel, beckoned on

To summits nobler than the proudest that he won!

O, had he felt that that which then did bindHis beating temples with its iron band,Might once, indeed, of that Immortal Mind,That gladdened Earth, have pierced the symbol hand;Had vision wafted him to those dim years,When Christ was bowing to the Agony,And pouring upon Man his farewell tears,Ere His triumphal parting for the sky—What then had been the story of thine eye,Than tongues more eloquent, O “Child of Destiny!”

O, had he felt that that which then did bind

His beating temples with its iron band,

Might once, indeed, of that Immortal Mind,

That gladdened Earth, have pierced the symbol hand;

Had vision wafted him to those dim years,

When Christ was bowing to the Agony,

And pouring upon Man his farewell tears,

Ere His triumphal parting for the sky—

What then had been the story of thine eye,

Than tongues more eloquent, O “Child of Destiny!”

Then, when the trumpet brattled with his name,In the mad morning of his opening days,And his best music was the voice of Fame,Merging each accent of a lowlier praise—How changed along the ice-path of that land,The mountain-barrier of an empire, then,Had that stern spirit strode—the loud commandSunk to that suasion that makes captive men,By its great moral harmony, and poursNew light from that far fount it draws from, and adores!

Then, when the trumpet brattled with his name,

In the mad morning of his opening days,

And his best music was the voice of Fame,

Merging each accent of a lowlier praise—

How changed along the ice-path of that land,

The mountain-barrier of an empire, then,

Had that stern spirit strode—the loud command

Sunk to that suasion that makes captive men,

By its great moral harmony, and pours

New light from that far fount it draws from, and adores!

Then—ere the earthquake summons of red WarHad lured him to that passion-field, where Man,Wild as the wild things, oft, he battles for,Ended in blackness what in blood began—Forth, with his pilgrim-staff, and book, and prayer,From citadel to wilderness, his wayHad lain through paths of Solitude and Care.The forest midnight and the glare of day—Proclaiming to the world, with prophet tongue,The Heaven-commissioned histories that round him rung!

Then—ere the earthquake summons of red War

Had lured him to that passion-field, where Man,

Wild as the wild things, oft, he battles for,

Ended in blackness what in blood began—

Forth, with his pilgrim-staff, and book, and prayer,

From citadel to wilderness, his way

Had lain through paths of Solitude and Care.

The forest midnight and the glare of day—

Proclaiming to the world, with prophet tongue,

The Heaven-commissioned histories that round him rung!

Then had he crushed the Conq’ror to the dust—And trod the dabbled sword beneath his feet—Cast the crown downward as a thing accurst,And fled as pestilence the monarch’s seat!Then had the gilded helm and warrior steedBeen banished, as the necromance of dreams—The sceptre spurned as some unwelcome reed,Nor clutched as the gemmed wonder that it seems!Then had the world seen rest—and with its yearsVirtue and Light had come, whose coming asked no tears!

Then had he crushed the Conq’ror to the dust—

And trod the dabbled sword beneath his feet—

Cast the crown downward as a thing accurst,

And fled as pestilence the monarch’s seat!

Then had the gilded helm and warrior steed

Been banished, as the necromance of dreams—

The sceptre spurned as some unwelcome reed,

Nor clutched as the gemmed wonder that it seems!

Then had the world seen rest—and with its years

Virtue and Light had come, whose coming asked no tears!

Then had that mighty creature, that no prayerCould stay upon his mountain-march to winAll that he dreamt of—for no mercy thereWould breathe her whisper mid the tramp and dinOf shaking armies—with a reverence, then,Had he looked up to God, and asked of HeavenWhat in his broad companionship with Men,Of loftier Duty with his Power was given—What, with a mind so pregnant of the skies,All Earth might look for from its hallow’d energies!

Then had that mighty creature, that no prayer

Could stay upon his mountain-march to win

All that he dreamt of—for no mercy there

Would breathe her whisper mid the tramp and din

Of shaking armies—with a reverence, then,

Had he looked up to God, and asked of Heaven

What in his broad companionship with Men,

Of loftier Duty with his Power was given—

What, with a mind so pregnant of the skies,

All Earth might look for from its hallow’d energies!

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