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Poem by George Walter Thornbury The Schoolboy King A Scene at Brienne LE PÈRE PETRAULT shut Virgil up Just as the clock struck ten: “This little Bonaparte,” he said, “Is one of Plutarch’s men. To see him with his massive head, Gripped mouth, and swelling brow, Wrestle with Euclid,—there he sat Not half an hour from now.” The good old pedagogue his book Put slowly in its place: “That Corsican,” he said, “has eyes Like burning-glasses; race Italian, as his mother said; Barred up from friend and foe, He toils all night, inflexible, Forging it blow by blow. “I know his trick of thought, the way He covers up his mouth: One hand like this, the other clenched,— Those eyes of the hot South. The little Cæsar, how he strides, Sleep-walking in the sun, Only awaking at the roar Of the meridian gun. “I watched him underneath my book That day he sprung the mine, For when the earth-wall rocked and reeled, His eyes were all a-shine; And when it slowly toppled down, He leaped up on the heap With fiery haste,—just as a wolf Would spring upon a sheep. “Pichegru, Napoleon’s monitor, Tells me he ’s dull and calm, Tenacious, firm, submissive,—yes, Our chain is on his arm. Volcanic natures, such as his, I dread;—may God direct This boy to good, the evil quell, His better will direct. “Here is his Euclid book,—the ink Still wet upon the rings; These are the talismans some day He ’ll use to fetter kings. To train a genius like this lad I ’ve prayed for years,—for years; But now I know not whether hopes Are not half choked by fears. “Last Monday, when they built that fort With bastions of snow, The ditch and spur and ravelin, And terraced row on row, ’T was Bonaparte who cut the trench, Who shaped the line of sap,— A year or two, and he will be First in war’s bloody gap. “I see him now upon the hill, His hands behind his back, Waving the tricolor that led The vanguard of attack; And there, upon the trampled earth, The ruins of the fort, This Bonaparte, the school-boy king, Held his victorious court. “To see him give the shouting crowd His little hand to kiss, You ’d think him never meant by God For any lot but this. And then with loud exulting cheers, Upon their shoulders borne, He rode with buried Cæsar’s pride And Alexander’s scorn. “Ah! I remember, too, the day The fire-balloon went up; It burnt away into a star Ere I went off to sup; But he stood weeping there alone Until the dark night came, To think he had not wings to fly And catch the passing flame. “O, he is meant for mighty things, This leader of my class;— But there ’s the bell that rings for me, So let the matter pass. You see that third-floor window lit, The blind drawn half-way down; That ’s Bonaparte’s,—he ’s at it now,— It makes the dunces frown.” George Walter Thornbury George Walter Thornbury's other poems: 1175 Views |
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