Even so, my child, creative genius stirs
In souls of poets and great conquerors;
But all unnoticed. Of the banked-up fires
Glowing within them, not a spark transpires.
Napoleon thus, encircled with renown,
Who on so loud an anvil forged his crown,
Whom you see traversing the city ways
Mute and unmoved, though all the people praise,
Feels, as they throng behind, a thronging train
Of thoughts astir within his teeming brain;
Events in thousands hurry to the light,
And all the future bursts upon his sight.
Already, in his wide all-seeing plan,
All Europe is but France; the Vatican
Is vassal to the Louvre; once a year
To Paris flock, to pay their homage there,
Berlin, Vienna, Milan, and Madrid,
Moscow and London; deep abysses, hid
Beneath old thrones, at every instant gape;
And there arises an imperial shape,
Bearing another orb - symbol of reign
O'er all mankind another Charlemain !
In his conception of this vast design
Hosts that shall be already form in line;
The well-drilled conscript, at the well-known word
Springs to attention, and the drums are heard.
Cherburg is filled with workmen; giant ships
Beneath the hammer rise upon their slips;
Red-hot, the mortars from the furnace shoot;
A fleet is launched, an army is afoot.
It is in war he finds both heat and light;
L'obusier rouge encor sort du fourneau qui bout,
Une marine flotte, une armée est debout!
Car la guerre toujours l'illumine et l'enflamme,
Et peut-être déjà, dans la nuit de cette âme,
Sous ce crâne, où le monde en silence est couvé,
D'un second Austerlitz le soleil s'est levé!"
Plus tard, une autre fois, je vis passer cet homme,
Plus grand dans son Paris que César dans sa
Rome.
Des discours de mon père alors je me souvins.
On l'entourait encor d'honneurs presque divins,
Et je lui retrouvai, rêveur à son passage,
Et la même pensée et le même visage.
Il méditait toujours son projet surhumain.
Cent aigles l'escortaient en empereur romain.
Ses régiments marchaient, enseignes déployées;
Ses lourds canons, baissant leur bouches essuyées,
Couraient, et, traversant la foule aux pas confus,
Avec un bruit d'airain sautaient sur leurs affûts.
Mais bientôt, au soleil, cette tête admirée
Disparut dans un flot de poussière dorée,
Il passa. Cependant son nom sur la cité
Bondissait, des canons aux cloches rejeté;
Son cortége emplissait de tumulte les rues;
Et, par mille clameurs de sa présence accrues,
Par mille cris de joie et d'amour furieux,
Le peuple saluait ce passant glorieux.
And, it may be, already on the night
Of that dark spirit, in that pregnant brain,
The Sun of Austerlitz has dawned again."
Another time, long afterwards, in state
I saw the great man pass along; more great
Within the Paris he had made his home,
Than Cæsar's self in his imperial Rome.
Then I remembered what my sire had said.
Honors by all around once more were paid,
Almost divine; and I beheld him brood,
With the same features, in the same set mood,
While the procession passed me like a dream,
Upon the self-same superhuman scheme.
A hundred eagles, as in Rome, that day
Followed their emperor up the Sacred Way;
His regiments marched, their banners waving free;
With muzzles levelled his artillery
Galloped, their lips unblackened, clanking loud,
Leaping upon their axles, through the crowd.
Soon, in a dusty haze of golden light,
That head, so worshipped, vanished from my sight
Forever. Still, from mouth to mouth, his name
Bounded o'er Paris, like a beacon flame;
Bells to the cannon-thunder echoed it;
Clatter of hoofs filled every swarming street;
And in a thousand clamors at the sight,
A thousand cries of joy and wild delight,
Their glorious chieftain as he passed along
Gathered the greetings of the popular throng.
Tr. by Sir George Young.
The Ballad of Bouillabaisse
STREET there is in Paris famous,
For which no rhyme our language yields,. Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is
The New Street of the Little Fields.
And here's an inn, not rich and splendid,
But still in comfortable case;
The which in youth I oft attended,
To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.
This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is
A sort of soup or broth, or brew,
Or hotchpotch of all sorts of fishes,
That Greenwich never could outdo;
Green herbs, red peppers, mussels, saffron,
Soles, onions, garlic, roach, and dace:
All these you eat at Terre's tavern,
In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.
Indeed, a rich and savory stew 'tis;
And true philosophers, methinks,
Who love all sorts of natural beauties,
Should love good victuals and good drinks.
And Cordelier or Benedictine
Might, gladly, sure, his lot embrace,
Nor find a fast-day too afflicting,
Which served him up a Bouillabaisse.
I wonder if the house still there is?
Yes, here the lamp is, as before;
The smiling red-cheeked écaillère is
Still opening oysters at the door.
Is Terre still alive and able?
I recollect his droll grimace:
He'd come and smile before your table,
And hope you liked your Bouillabaisse.
We enter nothing's changed or older.
"How's Monsieur Terre, waiter, pray?"
The waiter stares, and shrugs his shoulder
"Monsieur is dead this many a day.”
"It is the lot of saint and sinner,
So honest Terre's run his race." "What will Monsieur require for dinner?" "Say, do you still cook Bouillabaisse?"
"Oh, oui, Monsieur," 's the waiter's answer;
"Quel vin Monsieur desire-t-il ?"
"Tell me a good one.". "That I can, Sir:
The Chambertin with yellow seal."
"So Terre's gone," I say, and sink in
My old accustom'd corner place;
"He's done with feasting and with drinking,
With Burgundy and Bouillabaisse."
My old accustom'd corner here is,
The table still is in the nook;
Ah! vanish'd many a busy year is
This well-known chair since last I took.
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