East New Market

Defrauded heir of Gallia’s throne,

Much as I love Napoleon first,

I hate, despise, the tyrant tone

By which he thy fond parents cursed;

By which he broke the marriage tie

That bound two loving hearts as one,

And made a blooming belle to sigh,

A tender wife, to feel undone:

That vile edict that closed the ports,

And would not let the young wife land

On Gallia’s soil, nor near its courts,

Was dealing with too high a hand;

A hand of infamy, and shame,

Degrading to a prosperous hour,

That should have damned a gallant name,

And should have shivered such a power.

Because she could not bring a throne

From freedom’s land, and lay it down,

While countless millions sighed and groaned

Beneath the weight of such a crown;

She must be spurned unworthy to

Unite with such a rising clan,

As Corsica could help them to;

That, mighty, boundless, favored land.

That little spot, from whence he came,

Seemed then so big, he could not see

Beyond it, to the land of fame,

The great wide-spread America,

That yet should live, when his great throne

O’erturned had crumbled into dust,

And should smile, while he atoned

For direful sins, as soon he must;

His Corsica seemed then so great,

Sparkling with twice ten thousand thrones;

He could not list to coming fate,

And to his weary years of groans

That, yet should make the ocean weep,

And sigh around his rock built home,

While she in quiet peace could sleep

Away from St. Helena’s foam

Scarce had he thought, when he was born,

How many thrones were his to give;

While treating with such bitter scorn

The noble woman, who should live

To see his scepter sinking low,

The crown dashed from his regal brow,

And almost hear his sighs of woe,

As neath the storm his soul must bow.

And thy first wife brought thee no crown,

No dowery of high degree;

But a fair brow that, knew no frown,

A jewel from America;

A richer gem than Caesar’s blood

Brought to thy own great diadem,

From out old Austria’s regal flood

That, all thy glory could not stem;

Nor all thy legions marshalled round,

Backed by thy fatal, stern decree,

Could keep aloft the weighty crown

That, yet must crushing, fall with thee,

And with thy fall, thy brothers too,

Must mingle with collapsing dust,

And sink beneath the storm that blew

Destruction, o’er neglected trust.

Nor could Jerome’s divorce e’er be

Valid, before the throne of God;

Though he might live beyond the sea,

And thou mightiest sleep beneath the sod,

She was of purest, spotless fame,

Affectionate, and, true, and good,

Miss Patterson her maiden name,

And just as noble in her blood.

Aye, just as noble as the great

Ambitious general of fame,

Or Jerome’s second queenly mate,

Federica Catherine, by name;

Although a daughter of a king,

Unwedded, neath the eye of God,

Who will not tolerate the thing,

Unless obedient to His nod:

For fornication, He might break

The band that binds two souls as one;

Or for adultery’s vile sake,

As His great law, has justly done;

But not to strengthen a great name,

By Him raised to a giddy height;

Or to enshrine a kingly fame

That, He could crush with endless might.

Weak, vain attempt of mortal man

To seize the power thou shouldst not take,

And to apply with impious hand

The laws, thou shouldst not dare to break,

Or to corrupt to thine own use,

The sacred things, thou darest not touch

With mortal sin, and vile abuse,

Is too abominably much;

How e’er ambitious man may be,

God will not suffer him to rule

Above His just, supremacy;

And he who dares it; is a fool,

For justice will be meeted out

To those, who in His power trust,

However haughty, proud, and stout

May be His foes of human dust.

And though Napoleon the Third

May institute a court to show

How he can sway it by a word,

And legalize a crime so low,

There comes a time: oh, do not fear

When God’s eternal voice shall sound

Into the earth’s great listening ear,

That heavenly justice shall abound:

And that the lawful blood shall rule

In spite of the unjust decree,

And that the Wurtembergish tool,

Shall yield to young America;

And that a Patterson’s free blood

At the appointed time and hour,

Shall roll with an herculean flood

Through France’s haughty halls of power

As Josphine’s now holds the helm,

Through just such an unjust decree,

As gave Hortense’s blood the realm,

For Bonaparte’s vile treachery;

And for repudiating one

Of noble virtue, pure, and good,

Refulgent as the morning sun

That, streams across dark ocean’s flood.

And some have dared to say that he

Who sits upon the great French throne,

Is no Napoleon: this may be,

Or it may not, perhaps be known

Who is his father, but if not

A scion of Napoleon’s line,

It goes to prove that, not one jot

Of justice fails that, is divine.

For he who dares with his own hand

To break that bond, for no just cause,

To have an heir at his command,

Regardless of the higher laws,

Will find himself ruled by a fate

That, his strong will cannot control;

Perhaps, alas! when it’s too late,

That, he has wrecked a precious soul.

And all his wishes fail, and fall,

Beneath the sacrifice he’s made;

Regardless of affection’s call

Or of the heart that, he’s betrayed;

Or the sweet-being crushed to earth,

Beneath a tyrant’s load of shame;

Though God can change the line of birth

And Josophine, rule in his name.

And if her scion, would rule long

Within the realm that justice gave,

It cannot be by doing wrong,

Like him; who sleeps within his grave,

And bade his brother sacrifice

A trusting, pure, and loving wife,

Beneath his very Makers eyes

Who holds the justice, and the life.

Beware – for though art but a man,

Invested with the purple robe;

Within thy mighty Maker’s hand

That, holds aloft this rolling globe;

And reads thy thoughts, thy acts, and ways

And sees thy courts of justice too,

Which thy injustice, often sways,

And finally must thee undo.

No sanction of a foul decree

Should set Miss Patterson aside,

However Frenchy, it may be;

She was thy uncle’s lawful bride;

And that decree unrecognized

By the proud church that, made them one;

Before which his last marriage dies,

And thus undoes, what ne’er was done.

Nor would the Pope ever approve

The second union of Jerome,

For policy, and not for love,

And thus destroy a happy home;

Yet in the face of all of this,

Thou settest aside so just a claim,

Which like a serpent’s deadly hiss

Will coil around thy wreathe of fame.

And thy weak heir may bite the dust,

And the Westphalia line may feel

Tis better in The God to trust,

Than in thy courts, and bristling steel,

For God in justice may yet place

Upon thy haughty throne a king,

Who will do justice to his race,

And be upright in everything;

And if he should not; he will fall;

For God will not the vile endure,

But help the weak who on Him call,

And still exalt the just, and pure;

For He can raise up who he will

And cast down those who disobey.

Smile with a vengeance that shall kill,

Or justice deck with royalty.

But young Jerome Napoleon should

Not have resigned his birth-right here,

And left a home so pure and good,

For tyranny’s uncertain ear;

To tread a land of furious fame,

Where he may, or may not ascend;

Be guillotined, or win a name,

Or in a prison lowly bend:

Have not submitted to disgrace

By a Conceil de Famille,

As there assembled in the face

Of all the world with treachery,

To cast dishonor on a name

Such as his worthy gran-dame bore,

And on his native country’s fame,

That, pales not at Napoleon’s door;

Nor trembles at the despots tread,

Nor at his legions clanking steel,

Nor at his naval banners spread

O’er ocean’s broad and briny field

Nor at his cannon’s sullen roar,

Nor at his castles belching flame,

For o’er them will our banners soar,

And liberty will write its name.

Our azure field, with its bright stars

And stripes, the emblem of the free,

Will float in terror from our spars,

And from each topmost crag and tree

Belting the world with its proud light

Till despotisms are unknown,

As the great champion of right,

Uprooting every despot’s throne.

Then will you wish that you had kept

The proud commission of the free,

When we shall sweep, as ne’er we swept

The world before, for liberty;

When we arise with all our might,

And earth shall tremble neath our tread

As champions for truth and right,

With justice marching at our head.

Then oh ye Kings; with terror quake,

For God is rearing us to do

What, He would have us ne’er forsake,

His glory, and his honor too;

A trust he gives that, we must keep,

A high command we must fulfill,

Though earth should reel, and ocean weep,

He breathes it forth from every hill

The young accomplished Bonaparte

Who gave Miss Patterson his hand;

His first affections, and his heart,

With a French frigate in command,

Should ne’er have yielded to a will

That smote with such a deadening blow

The bride, he could not wish to kill,

Nor to consign to cruel woe.

He should have cast the crown aside,

Or crushed it neath his scornful heel;

And clung the closer to his bride

Who could so deeply love and feel;

But no; the bauble of display

Flashed on his proud ambitious eye,

As King of all Westphalia,

He clutched it, and he said good-by;

He pressed the band upon his brow,

That hard, unfeeling thing of gold,

And oft I wonder even now,

If his poor heart beat not as cold;

Or if at times it stood not still,

Beneath the trial of the hour,

Neath conscience’s revengeful thrill,

And felt remorses gloomy power.

Long years have passed since that dark deed,

And with them too, had passed his crown,

While ninety years with lightning speed,

Has not sufficed to lay her down

Within the grave, to her last sleep,

Beneath oblivious haughty tread

Till, she on earth is seen to weep

Over her son, who now is dead

But in God’s time, the tide will turn,

Though tardy as it may appear;

And teach the nations yet to learn

That, they who trust Him, need not fear,

Although the regal door be closed;

At His great knock, the hinges break,

And crashing fall on those who’ve dosed,

And whom the times could not awake.

The despots chains may clanking fall

From feeble limbs, in dungeons dark,

As on the Living God they call,

And still cling to His living ark;

And thrones may tremble, reel, and rock,

As in the earthquakes heavy throe,

Beneath the hardy freemans knock,

As God directs each sturdy blow.

And France may yet arise, who knows,

From infidelity, remorse, and crime,

And cast away her kingly foes,

To be indeed, La Belle Sublime;

Acknowledging that, Christ is God;

With young Jerome to rule the realm,

While bowing to his Makers nod,

And asking Him, to guide the helm.

God grant that day may soon arise,

Triumphant on the wings of time,

When not a banner sweeps the skies

Except the Saviors free from crime

When every soul shall equal stand

Judged by the justice He has given

To hear the word of His command,

Depart: or enter into Heaven.

June 21st 1870
No 84 Hanover St
Baltimore city Md   

And
Respectfully Dedicated
To
Madam Jerome Bonaparte
The ever Respected,
Mother of’ the Honorable Deceased
As an humble
Tribute to his
Memory