The Poetical Works of the Right Hon. George Canning Comprising the Whole of his Satires, Odes, Songs, and Other Poems |
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 | The Poetical Works of the Right Hon. George Canning |  |
Next comes a gentler Virtue.—Ah! beware
Lest the harsh verse her shrinking softness scare,
Visit her not too roughly;—the warm sigh
Breathes on her lips;—the tear-drop gems her eye.
Sweet Sensibility, who dwells enshrined
In the fine foldings of the feeling mind;
With delicate Mimosa's sense endued,
Who shrinks instinctive from a hand too rude;
Or, like the Anagallis, prescient flower,
Shuts her soft petals at the approaching shower.
Sweet child of sickly Fancy!—her of yore
From her loved France Rousseau to exile bore;
And while midst lakes and mountains wild he ran,
Full of himself, and shunn'd the haunts of man,
Taught her o'er each lone vale and alpine steep
To lisp the story of his wrongs, and weep;
Taught her to cherish still in either eye,
Of tender tears a plentiful supply,
And pour them in her brooks that babbled by;—
—Taught by nice scale to meet her feelings strong,
False by degrees, and exquisitely wrong;—
—For the crush'd beetle first,—the widow'd dove,
And all the warbled sorrows of the grove;—
Next for poor suffering guilt;—and last of all,
For Parents, Friends, a king and Country's fall.
Lest the harsh verse her shrinking softness scare,
Visit her not too roughly;—the warm sigh
Breathes on her lips;—the tear-drop gems her eye.
Sweet Sensibility, who dwells enshrined
In the fine foldings of the feeling mind;
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Who shrinks instinctive from a hand too rude;
Or, like the Anagallis, prescient flower,
Shuts her soft petals at the approaching shower.
Sweet child of sickly Fancy!—her of yore
From her loved France Rousseau to exile bore;
And while midst lakes and mountains wild he ran,
Full of himself, and shunn'd the haunts of man,
Taught her o'er each lone vale and alpine steep
To lisp the story of his wrongs, and weep;
Taught her to cherish still in either eye,
Of tender tears a plentiful supply,
And pour them in her brooks that babbled by;—
—Taught by nice scale to meet her feelings strong,
False by degrees, and exquisitely wrong;—
—For the crush'd beetle first,—the widow'd dove,
And all the warbled sorrows of the grove;—
Next for poor suffering guilt;—and last of all,
For Parents, Friends, a king and Country's fall.
Mark her fair votaries, prodigal of grief,
With cureless pangs, and woes that mock relief,
Droop in soft sorrow o'er a faded flower
O'er a dead jack-ass pour the pearly shower;—
But hear, unmoved, of Loire's ensanguined flood,
Choked up with slain;—of Lyons drench'd in blood;
Of crimes that blot the age, the world with shame,
Foul crimes, but sicklied o'er with Freedom's name;
Altars and thrones subverted, social life
Trampled to earth,—the husband from the wife,
Parent from child, with ruthless fury torn;—
Of talents, honour, virtue, wit, forlorn,
In friendless exile,—of the wise and good
Staining the daily scaffold with their blood.—
Of savage cruelties, that scare the mind,
The rage of madness with hell's lust combin'd—
Of hearts torn reeking from the mangled breast,—
They hear—and hope, that all is for the best.
With cureless pangs, and woes that mock relief,
Droop in soft sorrow o'er a faded flower
O'er a dead jack-ass pour the pearly shower;—
But hear, unmoved, of Loire's ensanguined flood,
Choked up with slain;—of Lyons drench'd in blood;
Of crimes that blot the age, the world with shame,
Foul crimes, but sicklied o'er with Freedom's name;
Altars and thrones subverted, social life
Trampled to earth,—the husband from the wife,
Parent from child, with ruthless fury torn;—
Of talents, honour, virtue, wit, forlorn,
In friendless exile,—of the wise and good
Staining the daily scaffold with their blood.—
Of savage cruelties, that scare the mind,
The rage of madness with hell's lust combin'd—
Of hearts torn reeking from the mangled breast,—
They hear—and hope, that all is for the best.
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Fond hope!—but Justice sanctifies the prayer—
Justice!—here, Satire, strike! 'twere sin to spare!
Not she in British Courts that takes her stand,
The dawdling balance dangling in her hand,
Adjusting punishments to fraud and vice,
With srupulous quirks, and disquisition nice—
But firm, erect, with keen reverted glance,
The avenging angel of regenerate France,
Who visits ancient sins on modern times,
And punishes the Pope for Cæsar's crimes.
Justice!—here, Satire, strike! 'twere sin to spare!
Not she in British Courts that takes her stand,
The dawdling balance dangling in her hand,
Adjusting punishments to fraud and vice,
With srupulous quirks, and disquisition nice—
But firm, erect, with keen reverted glance,
The avenging angel of regenerate France,
Who visits ancient sins on modern times,
And punishes the Pope for Cæsar's crimes.
The names of Vercengetorix are supposed to have been very much gratified by the invasion of Italy, and the plunder of the Roman territory. The defeat of the Burgundians is to be revenged on the modern inhabitants of Switzerland. But the Swiss were a free people, defending their liberties against a tyrant. Moreover, they happened to be in alliance with France at the time. No matter, Burgundy is since become a province of France, and the French have acquired a property in all the injuries and defeats which the people of that country may have sustained, together with the title to revenge and retaliation to be exercised in the present or any future centuries, as may be found most glorious and convenient.
| The Poetical Works of the Right Hon. George Canning | |