I stood in Paris at the tomb Of him who crossed the bleak Alps' ridge, And charged o'er Lodi's bloody bridge, Till Europe heard his cannons' boom: Who made the haughty Hapsburg yield, Who watched the flames from Kremlin's tower, Who Elba fled, but fell from power On Waterloo's tremendous field. He was a dreamer in his youth, His eyes were dull, his face was pale; But, knowing no such word as fail, He wrought his visions into truth. Second alone to him of Rome He sits within the halls of fame; His glory France's, though he came, A Caesar, from the Caesars' home. |