Of kings and dukes in England till at last They find themselves mistaken for the people. Drink to me, clasp my hand, embrace me--_tiens_! The Emperor is home again in France, And Europe for democracy is thrilling. Now don't you see the Emperor was sick, The shadows falling slant across his mind To write to such an England: "My career Is ended and I come to sit me down Before the fireside of the British people, And claim protection from your Royal Highness"-- This to the regent--"as a generous foe Most constant and most powerful"--I weep. They tricked him Gourgaud. Once upon the ship, He thinks he's bound for England, and why not? They dine him, treat him like an Emperor. And then they tack and sail to St. Helena, Give him a cow shed for a residence. Depute that thing Sir Hudson Lowe to watch him, Spy on his torture, intercept his letters, Step on his broken wings, and mock the film Descending on those eyes of failing fire. ... One day the packet brought to him a book Inscribed by Hobhouse, "To the Emperor." Lowe kept the book but when the Emperor learned Lowe kept the book, because 'twas so inscribed, The Emperor said--I stood near by--"Who gave you The right to slur my title? In a few years Yourself, Lord Castlereagh, the duke himself Will be beneath oblivion's dust, remembered For your indignities to me, that's all. England expended millions on her libels To poison Europe's mind and make my purpose Obscure or bloody--how have they availed? You have me here upon this scarp of rock, But truth will pierce the clouds, 'tis like the sun And like the sun it cannot be destroyed. Your Wellingtons and Metternichs may dam The liberal stream, but only to make stronger The torrent when it breaks. "Is it not true? That's why I weep and laugh to-day, my friend And trust God as I have not trusted yet. And then the Emperor said: "What have I claimed? A portion of the royal blood of Europe? A crown for blood's sake? No, my royal blood Is dated from the field of Montenotte, And from my mother there in Corsica, And from the revolution. I'm a man Who made himself because the people made me. You understand as little as she did When I had brought her back from Austria, And riding through the streets of Paris pointed Up to the window of the little room Where I had lodged when I came from Brienne, A poor boy with my way to make--as poor As Andrew Jackson in America, No more a despot than he is a despot. Your England understands. I was a menace Not as a despot, but as head and front, Eyes, brain and leader of democracy, Which like the messenger of God was marking The doors of kings for slaughter. England lies. Your England understands I had to hold