The Pleasures Of Amibition : Or, Une Reverie A La Corse, 1804. On An Imperial Coronation By Hector Macneill Poem by Hector Macneill

The four winds roar round Europe's shores,
Deep growled the threat'ning thunder!
As from the mud, besmeared with blood,
Up tower'd a thing of wonder!
Its head was black, its face was chalk,
Each eye, though sunk, was gleaming,
Its sleepless brain, with racking pain,
Knew neither rest nor dreaming!

In its right hand it waved a brand
Of scorching brimstone blazing!
The dismal glare made myriads stare,
But all were sad, while gazing!
Its left hand prest (by way of rest)
On scattered crowns and sceptres;
Close at its back, in horrid clack,
Grinned fiends, or guilt's inspectors.

'Avaunt!' it cried, 'ye sons of pride!
Ye grumblers! dread displeasure!
My height, ye see - crouch! - bend the knee!
Nor dare that height to measure!
Kings,- kiss the rod! - I move a god!
A god of self-creation:
Should one rebel, by heaven and hell!
I'll send him to damnation:

If one but speaks, in death he squeaks!
'Tis meet you all were civil!
If one complains, bound fast in chains,
I'll send him to the devil.
What! - doubt my power! - behold the tower
Of human height and splendour!
Popes, late our foe, now kiss my toe,
And tremble at my grandeur.

Shall then my sway not clear the way
For unprescribed possession?
Shall not my nod secure the road
To plunder and oppression?
Shall reptiles dare, enleagued, to war
And meditate correction;
Or dream to curb what may disturb
Their safety or protection?

A pigmy state, with gold elate,
Pretends to check dominion!
A Russion bear attempts in air
To soar on eagle pinion!
A Swedish owl presumes to growl,
And form a northern faction!
A Turkish mute dares to dispute
My title and subjection!-

But soon I'll crush Turk, Swede, and Rush,
With all their schemes nefarious!
As for John Bull - when reason's cool,
I think each plan precarious.
Yet John loves beef; his dread and grief
Is want of constant stuffing;
Should famine come, defection's hum
Would soon drown naval puffing!

Oh! for the day, when want's dismay
Would damp this purse-proud nation!
Then should kind gales, with flowing sails,
Waft us to rich sensations!
My sallad boys would taste new joys!
Each raptur'd sound would tell us,
That what half feasts these grumbling beasts,
Would stuff my poor starved fellows!

Curse on the spot, where hardy Scot
Through perils scorns dejection!
Each home-loved rill, and heath-crowned hill,
Bind fast his warm affection :
Nor famine's gloom, nor war's death-doom,
Can damp his dauntless valour:
A vet'ran Scot spoil'd Egypt's plot!
Ah! pangs! that was a nailer!

What's at my back - ye hell-hound pack,
Avaunt! and cease tormenting!
I know it all! - ye can't appal!
I see black storms fermenting;
And though I fear yon Russian bear
May yet breed some disaster,
And oft times think this northern link
Will prove a blistering plaster,

Yet, while I eye deep Prussia sly,
And cautious watch Batavi,
Prepared for blows, I'll make these foes,
Ere long, cry out - peccavi.
Expenses flow! - my treasury's low!
(No plunder makes me richer!)
I dread a drain! - no longer Spain!
Ah! morbleu! - there's a twitcher!

But up! proud heart - why do I start?
Hence, phantoms, and chimeras!
Brains racked like mine should ne'er divine
When plagues and storms are near us.
Since crimes have shed, on this crown'd head,
Such undreamt power and splendour,
To crimes I turn! - let kingdoms burn,
And scorch up to a cinder!

Through blood I wade! (my thriving trade)
By this I've gained dominion.
Should fate rebel, secured in hell,
I've one firm bond of union!
Old Nick and I have learnt to vie,
Which should excel the other;
Old Nick and me can't disagree,
He owns me for his brother.

By him I rose, and crush'd my foes;
From him I learnt each lesson;
When all hope's flown, firm on his throne
I'm sure of joint possession.
Up then, proud heart! - no more I start:
To valour pride is given!
Better in hell (as poets tell)
To reign, than serve in heaven!'

Down sunk the sprite to dismal night!
Deep roared each blast and billow!
He sunk opprest, to find some rest,
But sleep still fled his pillow!
Learn hence, ye great! mid pomp and state,
What lawless power embitters,
Not all that's high can peace supply;
Not all is gold that glitters!