It was the Lord of Castlereagh, he sat within his room,
His arms were crossed upon his breast, his face was
marked with gloom;
They said that St Helena's Isle had rendered up its
charge,
That France was bristling high in arms—the Emperor at
large.

'Twas midnight! all the lamps were dim, and dull as
death the street,
It might be that the watchman slept that night upon his
beat,
When lo! a heavy foot was heard to creak upon the
stair,
The door revolved upon its hinge—Great Heaven!—What
enters there?

A little man, of stately mien, with slow and solemn
stride;
His hands are crossed upon his back, his coat is opened
wide;
And on his vest of green he wears an eagle and a
star,—
Saint George! protect us! 'tis The Man—the thunder-
bolt of war!

Is that the famous hat that waved along Marengo's
ridge?
Are these the spurs of Austerlitz—the boots of Lodi's
bridge?
Leads he the conscript swarm again from France's hornet
hive?

What seeks the fell usurper here, in Britain, and alive?
Pale grew the Lord of Castlereagh, his tongue was parched
and dry,
As in his brain he felt the glare of that tremendous eye;
What wonder if he shrunk in fear, for who could meet the
glance
Of him who reared, 'mid Russian snows, the gonfalon of
France?

From the side-pocket of his vest a pinch the despot
took,
Yet not a whit did he relax the sternness of his look:
"Thou thoughtst the lion was afar, but he hath burst the
chain—
The watchword for to-night is France—the answer St
HelÉne.

"And didst thou deem the barren isle, or ocean waves,
could bind
The master of the universe—the monarch of mankind?
I tell thee, fool! the world itself is all too small for me;
I laugh to scorn thy bolts and bars—I burst them, and
am free.

"Thou thinkst that England hates me! Mark!—This
very night my name
Was thundered in its capital with tumult and acclaim!
They saw me, knew me, owned my power—Proud lord!
I say, beware!
There be men within the Surrey side, who know to do
and dare!

"To-morrow in thy very teeth my standard will I rear—
Ay, well that ashen cheek of thine may blanch and shrink
with fear!
To-morrow night another town shall sink in ghastly
flames;
And as I crossed the Borodin, so shall I cross the
Thames!

"Thou'lt seize me, wilt thou, ere the dawn? Weak
lordling, do thy worst!
These hands ere now have broke thy chains, thy fetters
they have burst.
Yet, wouldst thou know my resting-place? Behold, 'tis
written there!
And let thy coward myrmidons approach me if they dare!"

Another pinch, another stride—he passes through the
door—
"Was it a phantom or a man was standing on the floor?
And could that be the Emperor that moved before my eyes?
Ah, yes! too sure it was himself, for here the paper lies!"

With, trembling hands Lord Castlereagh undid the mystic
scroll,
With glassy eye essayed to read, for fear was on his soul—
"What's here?—'At Astley's, every night, the play of
Moscow's Fall!
Napoleon, for the thousandth time, by Mr Gomersal!'"