C O R M A E L's video: Lord Byron Ode To Napoleon Buonaparte

The Scandalous Adventures Of Lord Byron 2009 Rupert Everett follows in the footsteps of romantic poet Lord Byron, 200 years after he embarked on his infamous tour of Europe. Described as ‘mad, bad and dangerous to know’, Byron sought to escape his notoriety in Britain by travelling through Portugal, Greece, Albania, Turkey, Switzerland and Italy. Everett goes on the trail of one of history’s best known sexual explorers in this fascinating, witty and enlightening documentary. Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte By Lord Byron (1788–1824) ’TIS done—but yesterday a King! And arm’d with Kings to strive— And now thou art a nameless thing: So abject—yet alive! Is this the man of thousand thrones, Who strew’d our earth with hostile bones, And can he thus survive? Since he, miscalled the Morning Star, Nor man nor fiend hath fallen so far. Ill-minded man! why scourge thy kind Who bow’d so low the knee? By gazing on thyself grown blind, Thou taught’st the rest to see. With might unquestion’d,—power to save,— Thine only gift hath been the grave, To those that worshipp’d thee; Nor till thy fall could mortals guess Ambition’s less than littleness! Thanks for that lesson—it will teach To after-warriors more Than high Philosophy can preach, And vainly preach’d before. That spell upon the minds of men Breaks never to unite again, That led them to adore Those Pagod things of sabre sway With fronts of brass, and feet of clay. The triumph and the vanity, The rapture of the strife— The earthquake voice of Victory, To thee the breath of life; The sword, the sceptre, and that sway Which man seem’d made but to obey, Wherewith renown was rife— All quell’d—Dark spirit! what must be The madness of thy memory! The Desolator desolate! The Victor overthrown! The Arbiter of others’ fate A Suppliant for his own! Is it some yet imperial hope That with such change can calmly cope? Or dread of death alone? To die a prince—or live a slave— Thy choice is most ignobly brave! He who of old would rend the oak, Dream’d not of the rebound: Chain’d by the trunk he vainly broke— Alone—how look’d he round? Thou, in the sternness of thy strength, An equal deed hast done at length, And darker fate hast found: He fell, the forest prowlers’ prey; But thou must eat thy heart away! The Roman, 1 when his burning heart Was slaked with blood of Rome, Threw down the dagger—dared depart, In savage grandeur, home— He dared depart in utter scorn Of men that such a yoke had borne, Yet left him such a doom! His only glory was that hour Of self-upheld abandon’d power. The Spaniard, 2 when the lust of sway Had lost its quickening spell, Cast crowns for rosaries away, An empire for a cell; A strict accountant of his beads, A subtle disputant on creeds, His dotage trifled well: Yet better had he neither known A bigot’s shrine, nor despot’s throne. But thou—from thy reluctant hand The thunderbolt is wrung— Too late thou leav’st the high command To which thy weakness clung; All Evil Spirit as thou art, It is enough to grieve the heart To see thine own unstrung; To think that God’s fair world hath been The footstool of a thing so mean; read more: http://www.bartleby.com/333/543.html