Le Petit Caporal

"Glory is fleeting, but obscurity is forever." – Napoleon Bonaparte

The backward shores of Corsica were home,
its accent tinging every word he spoke,
a feudal son of chestnut trees and cheese;
the tiny tower of a man was born
to inbred hatred of the royal soil
his native Genoese would soon command.

Beloved laws of Euclid thrill a mind
enlightened by arcane Plutarchan signs,
the runt of sundry écoles militaires
a common rank among the grand La Fère,
a course of standard issue laid before
the middling mastermind of destiny.

The cries of liberté, fraternité
descend in cresting waves of sympathy
upon the ears of brooding campagnard,
and breaking with the daunted officers
to sail across the mean Ligurian,
he hoists the tricolore above his isle.

Voir Paris à son plus sombre sommet,
the restive maven of artillery
observes the mob upon the Tuileries,
condemning in his wry Italic tongue
the weakness of a re patetico
succumbing to the democratic horde.

The Jacobin defender of Toulon
acquits himself a lethal chef des hommes,
foiling royal rebels à la grapeshot,
winning through the bloody war of brothers
faithless bride of impotent Antilles,
his dowry paid in men of Italy.

Latter-day Hannibal crossing the Alps,
the sack of Piedmont proof of peerless salt
as legionnaire and statesman of the age,
the nouveau Caesar regnant at Milan,
waxing as his most beloved subject
signs the sanguine papers of her waning.

Ego salved in Alexander’s shadow,
Rosetta’s treasured masonry foretells
mimetic tales upon the Pharoah’s sands,
a clash of arms before the Pyramids;
his surging echo brought to sudden heel,
crushed beneath the keel of Nelson’s genius.

Abandoning his ardent men to death,
the marshal wins an entrée triomphale,
the timely strike of infamous Brumaire
complete before the trumpets ceased their ring;
Lucien’s theatrics reap the palace,
opening the throne to nascent consul.

Arrayed in red of reign impériale,
he breaks Marengo with his kingly reins
and bridles Austria at Lunéville,
riding conquest up to brief Amiens,
Pius plight at last unfurling curtains
on this deadly age of revolution.

The Anglo marriage doomed to quick divorce,
the lusty men of fetching Marianne
encroach the Channel’s undefeated shield,
La Grande Nation withdraws upon the wind
awaking from horizons to the east,
and marches from the sea to claim her spoils.

Never interrupt an erring rival,
the maxim of the landlocked Grand Armée
is drowned amid Trafalgar’s sinking doom,
a dangling blade above the caporal
as Russia’s Alexander waves the white,
surrendering the gem of Austerlitz.

Sated on the amity of Tilsit,
the fattened duchy turns her hunger west,
a futile bid to tame the British beast
with fragile cladding round her ocean hold,
the Spanish ulcer burning in his gut
and kindled Duke astir from Albion.

In blessed cleavage from his toothless queen,
the fruitless father of La Belle Patrie
secures the scion of his legacy,
ravishing the august House of Francis
to demand the trophy of Maria,
and style her son the latest heir of Rome.

The spiteful Russians end their siege of trade,
seducing vengeful despot to the cusp
of his impending downfall de l’hiver,
harking to the call of Slavic sirens,
the endless dalliance across the steppes
to shore his ruins on the Moscow walls.

Scavenging a life from burning white-stone,
the thwarted fireworks at the Kremlin’s edge
unleash the icy skies upon his pride,
the traipsing of his shameful exodus
surviving on a fare of frozen steed
and trailing blackened corpses in their wake.

Reenacting his Egyptian gambit,
the conquered hero scuttles to La Fille
and fends her honor in the pyrrhic sixth,
tasting coming overthrow at Leipzig,
the helpless gates of St. Denis agape
before the swarms of Cossack cavalry.

Le acte de déchéance de l’Empereur
descends upon him as a dreaded dove,
as Europe’s borders shape to bygone past
and victors bicker through his wretched fall,
proclaiming Elba the undaunted cay
and birthplace of his hasty revenir.

Ere was the forsaken king inconstant,
sailing from his brig upon the annum,
embarking on his hundred days of fame
aloft on gleeful calls of vive le roi,
the gendarmes sent to hinder his ascent
upon his hem to la ville lumière.

Sa Majesté convenes his final gasp,
commanding last disciples to their deaths
as fated straw is drawn at Waterloo;
the dashing Wellington devours his flanks
and casts his ghost upon Northumberland,
to live his dying days on Helena.