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Poem by John Clare


To Napoleon


The heroes of the present and the past
Were puny, vague, and nothingness to thee:
Thou didst a span grasp mighty to the last,
And strain for glory when thy die was cast.
That little island, on the Atlantic sea,
Was but a dust-spot in a lake: thy mind
Swept space as shoreless as eternity.
Thy giant powers outstript this gaudy age
Of heroes; and, as looking at the sun,
So gazing on thy greatness, made men blind
To merits, that had adoration won
In olden times. The world was on thy page
Of victories but a comma. Fame could find
No parallel, thy greatness to presage. 



John Clare


John Clare's other poems:
  1. Language Has Not the Power to Speak What Love Indites
  2. Nobody Cometh to Woo
  3. Merry Maid
  4. Wood Rides
  5. Hodge


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