I took this picture of the dome over Napoleon's tomb. The building is named the Invalides as it was always a hospital for the army. The day was just perfect - for this picture.It took almost 20 years to get him back to Paris from the island of St. Helena, where he died, but his wish of being by the river finally came true.
"I desire that my ashes may rest on the banks of the Seine in the
midst of the French people whom I loved so well."
Thousands and thousands of petitions were signed to bring his body back.
He was returned December 15, 1840.
Victor Hugo wrote a poem which was translated into English.
Dressed as an emperor, Sire you will return to your
capital,
drawn by eight horses
through the arch of triumph.
with neither tocsin,
nor battle nor fury.
(Tocsin means a bell to sound an alarm)
6 comments:
So he finally got there.
And deserved it...But why so late?
I've never been to see the tomb.
The Full text of the Poem:
THE COLOSSUS ON THE COLUMNS/THE EMPEROR’S RETURN
Sire, to thy capital thou shalt come back,
Without the battle's tocsin and wild stir;
Beneath the arch, drawn by eight steeds coal black,
Dressed as an emperor.
Thro' this same portal, God accompanying,
Sire, thou shalt come upon the car of state;
Like Charlemagne, a high ensainted king,
Like Caesar, wondrous great.
On thy gold sceptre, to be vanquish'd never.
Thy crimson beaked bird shall shine anon ;
Upon thy mantle all thy bees a-shiver
Shall twinkle in the sun.
Paris shall light up all her high and hundred
Towr's ; shall speak out with all her tones sublime ;
Bells, clarions, rolling drums shall all be thunder'd
In music at a time.
---
A mighty people, pale, with steps that falter.
Shall come to thee, by one attraction drawn,
Awe-stricken as a priest before the altar,
Glad as a child at dawn, —
A people who would lay all laws e'er sung
Or storied at thy feet ; aye floating on.
Intoxicate, from Bonaparte the young
To old Napoleon.
Then a new army, burning for the advance.
In exploit terrible, round thy car shall cry
Again, " Vive I'Empereur ! " and " Vive la France”
And seeing thee pass by.
Chief of the mighty empire, down shall fall
People and troops ; but thou before their view
Shalt not be able to stoop down at all
With, "I am pleased with you."
An acclamation, tender, lofty, sweet,
A heart-song high as ecstasy can bear it,
Shall fill, O captain mine! The city's street,
But thou shalt never hear it.
---
While round thy form gigantic, like a friend,
France and the world awake in shadows deep,
Here in thy Paris ever, world without end,
Thou shalt lie fast asleep;
Stern grenadiers, the veterans we admire,
Mute thy steed's steps shall kiss; albeit
A sight pathetic, beautiful, yet, sire,
Your Majesty shall not see it.
While round thy form gigantic, like a friend,
France and the world awake in shadows deep,
Here in thy Paris ever, world without end.
Thou shalt lie fast asleep;
Ay, fast asleep with that same sullen slumber-.
Those fadeless dreams, that on his stone chair fix
The Barbarossa, sitting out that number
Of centuries now six.
Thy sword beside thee, and thine eyelids close,
Thy hand yet moved by Bertrand's kiss, — the last;
Upon the bed whence sleeper never rose,
Thou shalt be stretched full fast, —
Like to those soldiers marching bolt upright
So often after thee to field or town,
Why by the wind of battle touch'd one night
Suddenly laid them down.
---
Like sleepers, not like those whose race is run,
With grave, proud attitude of armfed men,
But them that voice of dawn, the morning gun.
Shall never wake again;
Yea, so much like, that seeing thee all ice,
Like a mute god permitting adoration,
They who came smiling, love-drunk, in a trice
Shall raise a lamentation.
Sire, at that moment thou, for kingdom meet.
Shall have all beating hearts to be thine own.
Nations shall make thy phantom take a seat,
A universal throne.
Poets select, upon their knees in dust,
Shall hail thee far diviner than of old,
And gild thine altar, stain'd by hands unjust,
With a sublimer gold.
The clouds shall pass away from thy great glory;
Nothing to trouble it for aye shall come;
It shall expand itself o'er all our story
Like a vast azure dome.
---
Yea, thou shalt be to all a presence
solemn,
Both good and great,- to France an exile high
And calm; a brass Colossus on thy column
To every stranger's eye.
But thou, the while the sacred pomp shall lead
A cortege such as time hath never heard,
So that all eyes shall seem to see indeed
A vanished world upstirr'd;
The while they hear, hard by the wondrous dome
Where shadows keep the great names that men mark
In Paris still, the old guns growling home
Their master with a bark;
The while thy name without a peer shall soar,
Illustrious, beautiful to Heav'n, ah! thou
Shalt in the darkness feel for evermore
The grave-worm on thy brow.
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