IN FRENCH FIELDS.
[95]
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.
