[Poems by Hopkins in] The Echo :: :: University of Virginia Library

How dire, how grating to that lawless clan,
Who build up freedom on a novel plan,
To hear each day a pack of dastards base—
Mere water-gruel of the human race—
In this our land, where freedom sprung to birth,
The fairest portion of the spacious earth;
Where in strange union, Law and Peace we meet,
And full-fed Plenty waddling thro' the street;
I say—how dire to see this rascal throng,
With all the pride of self-importance strong,
Come into company among such free,
Such bold, enlighten'd, generous folks as we,
Whose bleeding country pour'd a purple flood,
And blush'd with Warren's and Montgomery's blood;

With other chiefs whom I've forgot by name,
Tho' doubtless number'd on the rolls of fame.
Shall this vile refuse, this ungodly clan,
The foes of every native right of man—
The right of doing whatsoe'er he list,
By secret stratagem or force of fist—
I say, shall these thus impudently dare,
Pour their vile scandals in a patriot ear,
And call the French a pack of cruel dogs,
Murderers, assassins, regicides, and rogues;
Merely, because by soft compassion led,
They've taken off their hapless monarch's head;
From all his woes a kind release have given,
And sent him up an extra post to heaven—
To tell their Maker they intend to go
Where all are equal in the world below.
Do not these wretches know that generous nation
The French exceed all men in moderation,
And that they lately have become, 'tis plain,
E'en to a proverb, gentle and humane?
'Tis true such instances we seldom find,
In this degeneracy of human kind,
Such virtue as transcends whate'er I thought,
That pious people ever could have wrought.
What generous feelings in their bosoms glow!
How prompt to soothe the pangs of royal woe!
Have they not proved mid every trying scene,
Their love most strong for Louis and his Queen?
First, in forgetting what a brood of kings,
Old Despotism had fledg'd beneath her wings;

Then in depriving him of legal sway,
Lest he should take French leave and scud away;
Next in confining him with so much care,
From the rude peltings of external air;
And lastly, what I deem by far the best,
Of love and loyalty the happy test,
In cutting off his head, to save his life
From scenes of woe, of horror, and of strife;
And thus, by certain means, to keep away
Old age, that mournful period of decay.
Then why this bluster, why this causeless blame?
'Tis crime enough to wear a pompous name.
I hate all titles of what kind soe'er,
King, Duke, Stadtholder, President or Mayor;
And had I but my will each dog should swing
That e'er has had the power or stile of King:
If good or bad, I'd no distinction make—
The good should perish for the wicked's sake.
And since our government's so prosperous grown,
I think it best to try to pull that down:
For much I dread, lest made by errors wise,
Columbia's sons refuse to blind their eyes,
And, tired of anarchy, should grow content
With the mild blessings of good government.

Yet cannot these absurd defamers feel
What glorious views inspire a Frenchman's zeal?
Lie, rob and murder, drench the earth with blood,
Break faith with man and spurn the laws of God,
Each kindred tie, each charity deride,
If good the end the means are sanctified:

Indeed such means more efficacious prove,
As more deserving of Almighty love.
Then since base acts a saving grace confer,
Those who adopt such means can never err—
Such means, O France! thy great redeemers use,
Such good Egalite with zeal pursues.
Hail chief! renown'd for deeds of blackest shame,
D'Orleans, Egalite whate'er thy name,
Whose head and heart with equal lustre shine,
And in thyself both fool and villain join!
With admiration and surprize we see
One vast monopoly of vice in thee,
In thee, whose changeful life alone has stood
Unchanged, in constant enmity to good,
While ne'er one solitary virtue shined,
To light the Memphian darkness of thy mind.
See young Lambelle, in closest ties allied,
By thee corrupted, ruin'd and destroy'd,
By darkest plots his lovely wife pursued,
And stripp'd of wealth to pay thy ruffian brood,
The vile De Genlis and his athiest clan,
Sworn foes to God and direst pests of man.
Yet still the glorious work imperfect lay,
Nor less than blood thy pious zeal could stay;
By thee accused the hapless Princess dies,
To human fiends a wretched sacrifice—
While that loved form and that enchanting face,
Where peerless beauty shone with every grace,
The brutal throng in savage fury tear,
And shouts of horror fill the tortured air.

Proceed great man! on murder murder pour,
Till satiate cruelty is gorg'd with gore,
And the poor remnant of what worth remains,
Is exiled far from Gallia's hapless plains.
But joy ye race oppress'd! ere long the day
Shall come when guilt a reck'ning dire shall pay;
When the full measure of his crimes complete,
Abhorr'd Egalite his doom shall meet,
And that deluded throng by him misled,
Shall wreak their vengeance on his guilty head.

Have not the French declar'd, in terms most strong,
That royal Louis could commit no wrong,
Inviolability's stiff buckler spread,
To guard from each mischance his sacred head,
Given to his heirs, in fee, the domination,
But taken care they ne'er should get possession?
Yet for these wondrous proofs of loyal zeal
What gratitude did Louis ever feel?
Did he not break the solemn oath he took,
Though held in durance when he kiss'd the book?
Did not this Louis, with his child and wife,
Flee from their hands to 'scape the assassin's knife,
And thus in open terms most plainly prove,
His fear and trembling at the nation's love?
And when amidst his native land arose
A band more hostile than external foes,
When fell Revenge unsheath'd his bloody knife,
And hell-born Murder urged the fatal strife,
When from the ax, suspended o'er their head,
His dearest friends and royal brothers fled,

Scarce 'scaped with life, proscribed, deserted, poor,
Unfriended exiles on a foreign shore,
Did he not basely from his purse supply
Those dogs, nor leave them in the streets to die?
Patience would fail, a Hessian's heart would swell,
Ere half the devilish tricks my pen could tell,
The arts, the cheats, the perjuries and plots,
Conspiracies, and murders, and what nots,
Accomplish'd by that powerful band of strife—
By prisoner Louis and his prisoner wife:
For since the tribe of murderers first began,
To make their inroads on the life of man,
Full well they knew no artifice or flood,
Can hide the guilt, or wash the stain of blood.

O cursed thirst of absolute controul,
The youngest offspring of Hell's fiery hole!
Sworn friend to tyrants, emperors and kings,
Thy smiles coquettish are most dangerous things.
By thee betray'd we lose the narrow way,
From virtue swerve, and far from duty stray,
And like Dupont, the pious, brave, and good,
Hurl bold defiance to the arm of God,
His altars raze, his holy temples burn,
And hold Religion up to public scorn.
For nought the sacred Majesty can please,
But what conduces to his creatures ease;
And France has proved, that what mankind abhor,
Fire, murder, rapine, Jacobins and war,
Are far more useful, than that truth and peace,
Should bid the jarring world from slaughter cease,

By laws promulged upon this novel plan,
These heroes fought t' assert the rights of man—
By laws like these the royal Louis tried,
And villains batten'd while their sovereign died.

'Tis said by some that since the great Navarre,
That pride of peace, that soul and strength of war,
France has not seen a king so mild and good
As the last Louis—yet they've shed his blood—
Granted—but then pray what does all this prove?
Are they at all events obliged a king to love?
Must they who've nobly burst through every tie,
And bravely dared each sacred law defy,
Drench'd Paris' streets with waves of human blood,
Spurn'd at religion and blasphem'd their God—
Shall souls like these at length be forced t'obey,
And basely crouch beneath a mortal's sway?
No—France, like Titan's sons, shall boldly rise,
And claim equality in yonder skies.
Suppose a hundred rogues grown old in evil,
And all, but one poor scoundrel, beat the devil—
Must we that sneaking fellow love?—no, no,
Send him to hell and let him better grow.
Besides beyond a doubt this Louis knew
Where the Bastile, that human stable, grew;
Why did he not that dreadful place destroy,
Where chains and famine murdered human joy,
Where many an honest man has wasted life,
Torn from his bed, his children and his wife,
While power's stern voice has bade him rise, be gone,
With scarcely time to pull his breeches on?

In short I think 'tis proved, as clear as lead,
That Louis Capet ought to lose his head.
And that upon his neck, for ours unfit,
The crown of martyrdom will nicely sit.
And let calumniators recollect,
That 'tis a greater mark of true respect,
That a mild king, for reasons wise and good,
Should thus be tapp'd and lose a little blood,
Than vile Egalite, that monster fell,
That scourge of man, that inmate sit of hell,
That prince of robbers and his equal clan
Should bid him off at four pence to a man.

And let each heir of this auspicious land,
Where infant Freedom led her daring band,
With grateful bosoms call to mind the hour,
When generous Louis raised an arm of power,
Stretch'd forth his hand a sinking world to save,
And snatch'd its honours from an early grave.

The Echo acknowledges that there is a sublime obscurity in this part of the text, which it is difficult to comprehend, but in responding it literally its beauties will at least be faithfully transmitted to the public ear.

Portrait of Philip Egalite, ci-devant Duke of Orleans, taken from a London paper. “The life of this man has been the scandal of his age. A swindler and debauchee, in early youth he corrupted and destroyed his brother-in-law the Prince de Lembelle, and afterwards accused and caused to be assassinated the Princess his wife, whom he had before contrived to plunder of the greatest part of her fortune. He carries in his bosom the pestilential germ of corruption, and after dishonouring his own bed he dishonours that of another, and blasts what little remains of the family of the celebrated Buffon, whose daughter he made the instrument of his debauchery. In his attempt to build the Palais Royal he plunged thousands of families into ruin, who had entrusted him with their property, by a fraudulent bankruptcy, which he committed with the most cynical impudence. His treasures and his fortune have been employed to pay the crimes of the tenth of August, second of September, the fifth of October and the twenty-first of January. Thus has heaven been lavish of its favours only to render vice more conspicuous. He was educated in dignity, that his villainy might be more prominent; he was rich and powerful only that his vices might be more numerous and despised; he was stationed near the throne only to overturn it with more public disgrace, and thus offer a terrible lesson to nations and to kings.—His friends and his agents were homogeneal with himself. La Clos, the author of Les Liaisons Dangerouses. Sillery de Genlis, a man the most deeply depraved of any of the present age, figured in his councils in conjunction with that execrable and atheistical priest, who at the end of the eighteenth century disgraces the name of Perigord. To these we may add that villain La Touche, and Biron, enlarged from an English prison, to appear at the head of the armies of the revolution. Such were the colleagues of Philip Egalite: such were his coadjutors in that series of guilt which wanted nothing to its completion but calling in to his assistance the butcher Le Gendre, Robespierre, the nephew of Damiens, and the malefactors of every country. Such were his secretaries, his directors, his chancellors, his familiars and his bosom friends.”

By the accused, &c. The following beautiful and pathetic lines upon the unfortunate Princess de Lambelle, who was barbarously murdered by a ferocious populace on the memorable second of September, 1792, are extracted from the New-Years' Verses for the American Mercury for 1793, and are the production of a much regretted friend, as estimable for the virtues of his heart, as distinguished for his literary talents, who in the fatal fever of 1798 in New-York, fell a victim to his active benevolence in the exercise of his professional duties, and his humane attention to an unfortunate foreigner of distinguished literary acquirements. Some passages in a few of the earlier Echoes were likewise furnished by the same hand.

“Rage, Rapine, Horror stalk around;
The palace thunders to the ground;
Babes, parents, patriots glut the grave;
Nor could imperial beauty save
Thy form where long she joy'd to dwell,
Loved, lost, unfortunate Lambelle!”