But these tears--for whom Or what are tears? The Old Guard--oh, my friend That melancholy remnant! And the horse, White, to be sure, but not Marengo, wearing The saddle and the bridle which he used. My tears take quality for these pitiful things, But other quality for the purple robe Over the coffin lettered in pure gold "Napoleon"--ah, the emperor at last Come back to Paris! And his spirit looks Over the land he loved, with what result? Does just the army that acclaimed him rise Which rose to hail him back from Elba?--no All France acclaims him! Princes of the church, And notables uncover! At the door A herald cries "The Emperor!" Those assembled Rise and do reverence to him. Look at Soult, He hands the king the sword of Austerlitz, The king turns to me, hands the sword to me, I place it on the coffin--dear Gourgaud, Embrace me, clasp my hand! I weep and laugh For thinking that the Emperor is home; For thinking I have laid upon his bed The sword that makes inviolable his bed, Since History stepped to where I stood and stands To say forever: Here he rests, be still, Bow down, pass by in reverence--the Ages Like giant caryatides that look With sleepless eyes upon the world and hold With never tiring hands the Vault of Time, Command your reverence. What have we seen? Why this, that every man, himself achieving Exhausts the life that drives him to the work Of self-expression, of the vision in him, His reason for existence, as he sees it. He may or may not mould the epic stuff As he would wish, as lookers on have hope His hands shall mould it, and by failing take-- For slip of hand, tough clay or blinking eye, A cinder for that moment in the eye-- A world of blame; for hooting or dispraise Have all his work misvalued for the time, And pump his heart up harder to subdue Envy, or fear or greed, in any case He grows and leaves and blossoms, so consumes His soul's endowment in the vision of life. And thus of him. Why, there at Fontainebleau He is a man full spent, he idles, sleeps, Hears with dull ears: Down with the Corsican, Up with the Bourbon lilies! Royalists, Conspirators, and clericals may shout Their hatred of him, but he sits for hours Kicking the gravel with his little heel, Which lately trampled sceptres in the mud. Well, what was he at Waterloo?--you know: That piercing spirit which at mid-day power Knew all the maps of Europe--could unfold A map and say here is the place, the way, The road, the valley, hill, destroy them here. Why, all his memory of maps was blurred The night before he failed at Waterloo. The Emperor was sick, my friend, we know it.