Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Buonaparte and the Echo

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Buonaparte and the Echo.
(A Translation.)[1]

Alone, I am in this sequestered spot not overheard.
                   Echo—Heard!
'Sdeath! Who answers me? What being is there nigh?
                   Echo—I.
Now I guess! To report my accents Echo has made her task.
                   Echo—Ask.
 ​Knowest thou whether London will henceforth continue to resist?
                   Echo—Resist.
Whether Vienna and other Courts will oppose me always?
                   Echo—Always.
O, Heaven! what must I expect after so many reverses?
                   Echo—Reverses.
What? should I, like a coward vile, to compound he reduced?
                   Echo—Reduced.
After so many bright exploits be forced to restitution?
                   Echo—Restitution.
Restitution of what I've got by true heroic feats and martial address?
                   Echo—Yes.
What will be the fate of so much toil and trouble?
                   Echo—Trouble.
What will become of my people, already too unhappy?
                   Echo—Happy.
What shall I then be, that I think myself immortal?
                   Echo—Mortal.
The whole world is filled with the glory of my name, you know.
                   Echo—No.
Formerly its fame struck this vast globe with terror.
                   Echo—Error.
Sad Echo, begone! I grow infuriate! I die!
                   Echo—Die.

  1. ↑ The original publication, it is said, exposed the Bookseller Palm, of Nuremberg, to trial by Court Martial. He was sentenced to be shot at Brannan, in 1807.—N. & Q., Jas. J. Scott.
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