[A] The temple of Jaggernaut, an idolatrous establishment in India, to the support of which the english government contributed largely. The unwieldy idol, to which the temple is dedicated, is, on certain days, carried about the streets on a huge carriage, under the wheels of which the superstitious multitude, it is said, suffer themselves to be trampled and crushed to pieces, by hundreds, from a superstitious motive. If this be not fiction, may the british government exert its influence to eradicate so barbarous and bloody a superstition from the minds of millions of idolatrous wretches.--_Freneau's note._ To see her murder'd, mangled sons, To worship idols, stocks, and stones, Or reliques of some scoundrel's bones. And "long may heaven on England smile-- (So says our preacher, all the while) The world's last hope, fast anchor'd isle!"-- Religion there is made no sport, State tailors there have deckt her out In a birth-day suit--to go to court!-- LINES ON NAPOLEON BONAPARTE[203] Napoleon, born for regal sway, With fortune in a smiling mood, To a foreign land explored his way, Where Cairo stands, or Memphis stood. And still he fought, and still she smiled, And urged him far, and spurr'd him on, And on his march, at length beguiled, One thinking man to wear a crown. The crown attracted many a care, And war employ'd him, day and night; He by a princess had an heir Born to succeed him, or--who might. Through russian tribes he forced his way, To blast their hopes and hurl them down Whose valor might dispute his sway, Or dispossess him of a crown. At last arrived the fatal time, When powerful tyrants, jealous grown, Agreed to count it for a crime A commoner should fill a throne. European states, with England join'd To keep unmixt the royal race, And let the famed Napoleon find A dotard might supply his place. [203] This poem and the one following were written shortly after the news of Napoleon's banishment to Elba, April 11, 1814, had reached America. ON THE DISMISSION OF BONAPARTE From the French Throne. Famed Bonaparte, in regal pride, Put slighted Josephine aside, And wedded an imperial bride, Of fortune sure. But when he droop'd, and when he fell, (I took my pen and mark'd it well) This jilt of jilts, this austrian belle, No longer styled him, Mon Amour; Which means, I think, my dearest heart, My love!--but lovers often part When friendship does not point the dart, Nor fix the flame. And warning, hence, let others take, Nor love's decree for interest break; In marriage, too much lies at stake To slight its claim. Retreating to the tuscan coast, An empire, wife, and fortune lost, He found the throne a dangerous post, And wars a cheat;