Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE LAST CAESAR, 1851-1870, by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH Poem Explanation Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Now there was one who came in later days Last Line: The lighted torch, the tocsin's heavy boom! Subject(s): Napoleon Iii (1808-1873) | ||||||||
I Now there was one who came in later days To play at Emperor: in the dead of night Stole crown and sceptre, and stood forth to light In sudden purple. The dawn's straggling rays Showed Paris fettered, murmuring in amaze, With red hands at her throat -- a piteous sight. Then the new Caesar, stricken with affright At his own daring, shrunk from public gaze In the Elysee, and had lost the day But that around him flocked his birds of prey, Sharp-beaked, voracious, hungry for the deed. 'Twixt hope and fear behold great Caesar hang! Meanwhile, methinks, a ghostly laughter rang Through the rotunda of the Invalides. II What if the boulevards, at set of sun, Reddened, but not with sunset's kindly glow? What if from quay and square the murmured woe Swept heavenward, pleadingly? The prize was won, A kingling made and Liberty undone. No Emperor, this, like him awhile ago, But his Name's shadow; that one struck the blow Himself, and sighted the street-sweeping gun! This was a man of tortuous heart and brain, So warped he knew not his own point of view -- The master of a dark, mysterious smile. And there he plotted, by the storied Seine And in the fairy gardens of St. Cloud, The Sphinx that puzzled Europe, for awhile. III I see him as men saw him once -- a face Of true Napoleon pallor; round the eyes The wrinkled care; mustache spread pinion-wise, Pointing his smile with odd sardonic grace As wearily he turns him in his place, And bends before the hoarse Parisian cries -- Then vanishes, with glitter of gold-lace And trumpets blaring to the patient skies. Not thus he vanished later! On his path The Furies waited for the hour and man, Foreknowing that they waited not in vain. Then fell the day, O day of dreadful wrath! Bow down in shame, O crimson-girt Sedan! Weep, fair Alsace! weep, loveliest Lorraine! So mused I, sitting underneath the trees In that old garden of the Tuileries, Watching the dust of twilight sifting down Through chestnut boughs just toucht with autumn's brown -- Not twilight yet, but that illusive bloom Which holds before the deep-etched shadows come; For still the garden stood in golden mist, Still, like a river of molten amethyst, The Seine slipt through its spans of fretted stone, And, near the grille that once fenced in a throne, The fountains still unbraided to the day The unsubstantial silver of their spray. A spot to dream in, love in, waste one's hours! Temples and palaces, and gilded towers, And fairy terraces! -- and yet, and yet Here in her woe came Marie Antoinette, Came sweet Corday, Du Barry with shrill cry, Not learning from her betters how to die! Here, while the Nations watched with bated breath, Was held the saturnalia of Red Death! For where that slim Egyptian shaft uplifts Its point to catch the dawn's and sunset's drifts Of various gold, the busy Headsman stood. . . . Place de la Concorde -- no, the Place of Blood! And all so peaceful now! One cannot bring Imagination to accept the thing. Lies, all of it! some dreamer's wild romance -- High-hearted, witty, laughter-loving France! In whose brain was it that the legend grew Of Maenads shrieking in this avenue, Of watch-fires burning, Famine standing guard, Of long-speared Uhlans in that palace-yard! What ruder sound this soft air ever smote Than a bird's twitter or a bugle's note? What darker crimson ever splashed these walks Than that of rose-leaves dropping from the stalks? And yet -- what means that charred and broken wall, That sculptured marble, splintered, like to fall, Looming among the trees there? . . . And you say This happened, as it were, but yesterday? And here the Commune stretched a barricade, And there the final desperate stand was made? Such things have been? How all things change and fade! How little lasts in this brave world below! Love dies; hate cools; the Caesars come and go; Gaunt Hunter fattens, and the weak grow strong. Even Republics are not here for long! Ah, who can tell what hour may bring the doom, The lighted torch, the tocsin's heavy boom! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NAPOLEON III IN ITALY by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING PRINCE HOHENSTIEL-SCHWANGAU; SAVIOUR OF SOCIETY by ROBERT BROWNING A COUP D'ETAT; AN INCIDENT IN THE NIGHT OF DECEMBER 4, 1851 by VICTOR MARIE HUGO VILLA FRANCA by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL MADAME TALLEYRAND AND THE TRAVELLER by HORACE SMITH DIRE: 10. A COUNSEL by ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE A THOUGHT FOR MARCH 1860 by CHARLES TENNYSON TURNER EXECUTION OF FELICE ORSINI, MARCH 13TH, 1858 by HARRIET ELEANOR HAMILTON (BAILLE) KING AFTER THE RAIN by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH AN ALPINE PICTURE by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH AN ODE ON THE UNVEILING OF THE SHAW MEMORIA BOSTON COMMON, MAY 31, 1897 by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH |
|