The Meteors, I (1799), pp. 17-25
Good courteous reader, I am sure the name
Of Buonaparte must have reach'd thine ear;
But, lest thou be deceived in his fame,
E'en from my Muse his glories shalt thou hear.
And first, this hero, like to other men,
Has capabilities to eat and drink:
In stature, he is five feet nine, or ten,
A goodly size, as many ladies think.
A year or two ago his face was pale,
But now, they say, it is a dingy brown;
And thence at Paris sprung an idle tale,
They said 'twas Gen'ral Toussaint come to town.
In science he is deep—his rapid pen
At once describes a vict'ry and a bust;
And fighting in a swamp and marshy fen,
He tells how many thousands bit the dust.
His travelling has of course begot a skill
In lands and soils; but this I will advance,
That let his knowledge be whate'er it will,
He knows the difference 'twixt Cayenne & France.
But we must trace the hist'ry of his life;
Observe how, inch by inch, his greatness grew;
At ten years old, we find him deep in strife,
Vowing in a balloon to take a view.
There first his mighty genius was unfurl'd,
(Admire his wise foresight and prudence true)
He wish'd to see the huge unwieldy world,
His infant ardour panted to subdue.
Light o'er his head his youthful hours roll,
He hastes to Genoa—What
do we behold!
The hero asking, "What's o'clock?" no soul
The hero can resolve; each watch is sold.
On ev'ry side the dreadful clamours rise;
No watches, shirts, or shoes do we possess;
Nor thee, nor the Directory we prize,
Unless ye save us from our sad distress.
"Courage! my lads; allons! see yonder plains
"And armies given us by Fate's decree;
"The Austrian spoils shall well reward your pains,
"Watches enough, and Wurmser's
watch for me."
Soon ca ira and civic hymns resound,
In horrid joy the reg'ments dance and jump;
And, as imagination wins the ground,
Each feels his bay'net in a hostile rump.
'Tis said dame Fortune is not over chaste,
Nor does she much delight in ancient men;
She found our hero most unto her taste,
And smil'd on Wurmser only now and then.
Thus victory to victory succeeds,
Armies retreat, and towns are render'd up;
The fields are spoil'd—and poor Italia bleeds,
And soon at Mantua
will the victor sup.
He came—and told the people they were free,
Deliver'd from the tyranny of knaves,
Bade them to plant the emblematic tree
Whose shadow would disdain to shelter slaves.
Bade them to be the right good friends of France,
And plac'd some thousand men within their walls,
Lest that by any accidental chance,
They chang'd their minds, and struggled in street
Next with th' Emp'ror's courtiers, tete-a-tete
At Campo Formio
he plans a peace,
Which done, he vows that either soon or late,
He'll go and drive the English troops like geese.
His dreadful grenadiers, his boast and pride,
Borne on huge rafts shall strike us all with fears;
Sail up the Thames upon the faithless tide,
And knock the antique Tower 'bout our ears.
March thence unto the Bank, whose facile doors
Shall yield up all to their rapacious claw,
Swift bounds the echo from the Gallic shores
Voila bank notes, at par with assignats!
But he, or the Directory soon found
This plan beneath the genius of France;
And then, the Turks and Mam'lukes to confound
He led his grenadiers a pretty dance.
Tost on the seas full many a stormy day,
At length his navy reach'd the Egyptian strand,
Only at Maltastopping by the way,
To play the Devil, did the hero land.
Safe in Aboukir's bay the navy rode
Approaching victories the warriors greet,
Nor could they find one Scavan to forebode
That Nelson hasten'd with his conqu'ring fleet.
Brave Nelson came—and while his vengeance flew
And claim'd the victory as Britain's right,
Great Buonaparte took a bird's-eye view,
Securely mounted on a turret's height.
The navy lost—no logic can prevail
On Afric's citizens to change one mind,
Those people thought he look'd just like a snail
Who came abroad, and left his shell behind.
Yet generalship like his was never found,
Hail, Ali Buonaparte! Vive l'Hero!
His faith like any weathercock veer'd round,
A pious Musselman from top to toe!
But here the Devil interferes, and bids
Each thing run counter to the prophet's will;
Still must be battle near the pyramids,
And in their mosques some more old women
Lo! on a dromedary, full of pride
To Syria now the hero bends his way;
Those soldiers who can steal a camel, ride,
The rest march after in their best array.
Rejoice, ye Jews! the Israelitish walls,
Require but workmen to be built apace,
A mighty Rabbi loudly on you calls,
In ev'ry Syrian town to raise Duke's Place.
Gen'ral again, he summons Acre with
Fraternal offers; strange, they wont go down;
But that uncivil Knight, Sir Sydney Smith,
Was rude enough to fortify the town.
He taught the Turks to banish idle fears,
And make incursions on the hostile French;
They sally—and find Jacobins have ears,
Which as superfluous lux'ries they retrench.
To desperation drove, the town they storm,
And storm again; but it is all in vain:
At length they take their leave, without much form,
And storming, march to Egypt back again.
In the retreat the Arabs were unkind,
Honor 'mongst thieves—yet they committed
But soon the hero has the bliss to find
The pyramids stand just where they were left.
He calls a council; finds the season past,
When men can fly to India in a day;
And after much debate, concludes at last,
From Egypt he had better slip away.
And as the Hebrew youths in days of old,
Went into Egypt to preserve their lives,
So out of Egypt, Buonaparte bold,
Escap'd to Paris, where I hear he thrives.