he offered up Marshal Lannes. He was forced to stand by that brave dying
man and listen to his awful reproaches. So, again, in the terrible
carnage of Spain at Eylau, at Borodino, Lutzen, Bautzen, Dresden,
Leipsic, Hanau, everywhere, he was compelled to hear the outspoken
protests of the men who had held the ladder for him--to stamp his foot
at the constant declarations of "Dukes," "Princes," and "Kings," that he
was a monster whose thirst demanded only human blood. At last, the whole
world cried out that it had had
"ENOUGH OF BONAPARTE!"
The expression became a war-cry, and the world escaped from the baleful
sceptre under whose shadow it had too long suspired. "What millions died
that Cæsar might be great!" cries Campbell. "None think the great
unhappy but the great," says Young. They deserve their unhappiness. It
is the mess of pottage to obtain which they have sold everything. Fame
has always seemed to the philosopher like some mountain in a polar
clime--cold, lonesome, inhospitable.
Tall mountains meet, and giddy greet
The clouds in their exalted homes;
What may they show, save ice and snow,
Unto the fleets that pass their domes?
Their crests are bold with solar gold:
Their charming cliffs enchant the eye;
Yet earth shows not more dreary spot
Than toilers in their heights descry.
There points a peak which mortals seek--
Fraught are its crags with human woes;
Shrill through its fasts shriek envy-blasts--
Forever drift hate's blinding snows.
Its towering height beams with a light--
The wondrous blaze of Glory's orb;
Still those who gaze feel most the rays,
While they who climb no warmth absorb.
Contentment creeps--Renown climbs steeps
Where consummations ne'er appease;
Below, how oft, when Care's aloft,
Unhappiness, distrusting, flees.
[Illustration]