A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/Napoléon le Petit (Les Châtiments, Victor Hugo)
His grandeur dazzled history;
The god of war,
A star he was,—a mystery,
To nations far.
All Europe at his nod inclined
With terror dumb.
Art thou his ape? March, march behind,
Tom Thumb, Tom Thumb.
Napoleon by the cannon's light,
Through smoke and cloud,
Guided across the hottest fight
The eagle proud.
He forced his way in, at Arcole
And out, with drum—
There's gold for thee, regale thy soul,
Tom Thumb, Tom Thumb.
Berlin, Vienna, Moscow,—all
Before him bent,
Not more an angel could appal
On vengeance sent.
Ho! Forts and fields! Ho! Kings and churls!
'Tis he—succumb!
But thou,—for thee, lo, here are girls,
Tom Thumb, Tom Thumb.
He rode o'er mountains and o'er plains.
And held confined
Within his palm, the guiding reins
Of all mankind.
His glories would the navies sink
So vast their sum!
For thee—see blood, come run and drink,
Tom Thumb, Tom Thumb.
Dark, dark archangel—but he fell!
Earth felt the sound,
And ocean opened by a spell
Its gulf profound.
Down headlong—but his name through time
Shall overcome—
Thou too shalt drown, but drown in slime,
Tom Thumb, Tom Thumb.