At the Tomb of Napoleon

 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.

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