At the Tomb of Napoleon

Alan Seeger

I stood beside his sepulchre whose fame,

Hurled over Europe once on bolt and blast,

Now glows far off as storm-clouds overpast

Glow in the sunset flushed with glorious flame.

Has Nature marred his mould? Can Art acclaim

No hero now, no man with whom men side

As with their hearts’ high needs personified?

There are will say, One such our lips could name;

Columbia gave him birth. Him Genius most

Gifted to rule. Against the world’s great man

Lift their low calumny and sneering cries

The Pharisaic multitude, the host

Of piddling slanderers whose little eyes

Know not what greatness is and never can.