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THE HUNTERS.

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[It is recorded that in France, during the reign of one of the Louises, a party of noble hunters, including some connections of the Royal Family, were returning from an unsuccessful hunt, when they noticed some slaters at work on the roofs. They shot at them with some success. Whether the tale be true or false, it was believed, and had much to do with deepening the horrors of the succeeding revolution.]

The Princes of the Royal Blood are coming from the chase—
Back artizan and laborer! to such as these give place!
Here prince and duke and baron bold, those burthens on the land,
Come on their prancing steeds of price, their fusils gilt in hand;
And what have ye to do to them except to bow and kneel?
Your common brawn was made to toil, and not your souls to feel.
Our monarch, with his Austrian wife, to daily pleasure goes;
What know the twain of common folk, their labor or their woes?
They feed on dainties, sip their wines, and press a downy bed.
We sleep on straw, and water drink, and gnaw our crust of bread;
And if we dare complain of wrong, the scourge is for our back,
And if we rise, as well we may, the gibbet and the rack.
Ho! palace-ward, fair gentlemen! we're scant of game to-day;
Nor savage boar, nor timid deer, we met upon our way;
Our pieces still are loaded—ah! what on the roof-tops there,
Those crawling emmets toiling hard, some fifty feet in air?
They may be birds or beasts perchance—we'll drop a few with ball—
Well-aimed, well-shot my noble friends! mark how the creatures fall.
Ye see not well, ye see not much; upon Parisian skies
No spectres of the coming wrath, in tints of blood arise;
All quiet as a summer eve, serene and lovely all;
No trembling of the palace walls, an omen ere they fall;
No muttering of the clouds to warn the rulers of the flood
That in a score of years shall rise to drench the land with blood.
What! would ye slay the helpless poor? Look to the bitter end!
The wolves ye hunt when brought to bay, may show their fangs, and rend.
Empty your pieces on the knaves! They are the meanest things,
And honored when their woes become the sport of lords and kings;
But tremble if they savage grow, the brutes that now are tame,
The hunted into hunters turn, and royal be the game.