The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore :: :: University of Virginia Library

When he, who had defied all Europe's strength,
Beneath his own weak rashness sunk at length;—
When, loos'd, as if by magic, from a chain
That seem'd like Fate's, the world was free again,
And Europe saw, rejoicing in the sight,
The cause of Kings, for once, the cause of Right;—
Then was, indeed, an hour of joy to those
Who sigh'd for justice—liberty—repose,
And hop'd the fall of one great vulture's nest
Would ring its warning round, and scare the rest.
All then was bright with promise;—Kings began
To own a sympathy with suffering Man,
And Man was grateful; Patriots of the South
Caught wisdom from a Cossack Emperor's mouth,

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And heard, like accents thaw'd in Northern air,
Unwonted words of freedom burst forth there!

Who did not hope, in that triumphant time,
When monarchs, after years of spoil and crime,
Met round the shrine of Peace, and Heav'n look'd on,—
Who did not hope the lust of spoil was gone;
That that rapacious spirit, which had play'd
The game of Pilnitz o'er so oft, was laid;
And Europe's Rulers, conscious of the past,
Would blush, and deviate into right at last?
But no—the hearts, that nurs'd a hope so fair,
Had yet to learn what men on thrones can dare;
Had yet to know, of all earth's ravening things,
The only quite untameable are Kings!
Scarce had they met when, to its nature true,
The instinct of their race broke out anew;
Promises, treaties, charters, all were vain,
And “Rapine! rapine!” was the cry again.
How quick they carv'd their victims, and how well,
Let Saxony, let injur'd Genoa tell;—
Let all the human stock that, day by day,
Was, at that Royal slave-mart, truck'd away,—

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The million souls that, in the face of heaven,
Were split to fractions , barter'd, sold, or given
To swell some despot Power, too huge before,
And weigh down Europe with one Mammoth more.
How safe the faith of Kings let France decide;—
Her charter broken, ere its ink had dried;—
Her Press enthrall'd—her Reason mock'd again
With all the monkery it had spurn'd in vain;
Her crown disgrac'd by one, who dar'd to own
He thank'd not France but England for his throne;
Her triumphs cast into the shade by those,
Who had grown old among her bitterest foes,
And now return'd, beneath her conquerors' shields,
Unblushing slaves! to claim her heroes' fields;
To tread down every trophy of her fame,
And curse that glory which to them was shame!—
Let these—let all the damning deeds, that then
Were dar'd through Europe, cry aloud to men,

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With voice like that of crashing ice that rings
Round Alpine huts, the perfidy of Kings;
And tell the world, when hawks shall harmless bear
The shrinking dove, when wolves shall learn to spare
The helpless victim for whose blood they lusted,
Then, and then only, monarchs may be trusted.

It could not last—these horrors could not last—
France would herself have ris'n, in might, to cast
Th' insulters off—and oh! that then, as now,
Chain'd to some distant islet's rocky brow,
Napoleon ne'er had come to force, to blight,
Ere half matur'd, a cause so proudly bright;—
To palsy patriot arts with doubt and shame,
And write on Freedom's flag a despot's name;—
To rush into the lists, unask'd, alone,
And make the stake of all the game of one!
Then would the world have seen again what power
A people can put forth in Freedom's hour;
Then would the fire of France once more have blaz'd;—
For every single sword, reluctant rais'd

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In the stale cause of an oppressive throne,
Millions would then have leap'd forth in her own;
And never, never had th' unholy stain
Of Bourbon feet disgrac'd her shores again.

But fate decreed not so—th' Imperial Bird,
That, in his neighbouring cage, unfear'd, unstirr'd,
Had seem'd to sleep with head beneath his wing,
Yet watch'd the moment for a daring spring;—
Well might he watch, when deeds were done, that made
His own transgressions whiten in their shade;
Well might he hope a world, thus trampled o'er
By clumsy tyrants, would be his once more:—
Forth from his cage the eagle burst to light,
From steeple on to steeple wing'd his flight,
With calm and easy grandeur, to that throne
From which a Royal craven just had flown;
And resting there, as in his ærie, furl'd
Those wings, whose very rustling shook the world!

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What was your fury then, ye crown'd array,
Whose feast of spoil, whose plundering holiday
Was thus broke up, in all its greedy mirth,
By one bold chieftain's stamp on Gallic earth!
Fierce was the cry, and fulminant the ban,—
“Assassinate, who will—enchain, who can,
“The vile, the faithless, outlaw'd, low-born man!”
“Faithless!”—and this from you—from you, forsooth,
Ye pious Kings, pure paragons of truth,
Whose honesty all knew, for all had tried;
Whose true Swiss zeal had serv'd on every side;
Whose fame for breaking faith so long was known,
Well might ye claim the craft as all your own,
And lash your lordly tails, and fume to see
Such low-born apes of Royal perfidy!
Yes—yes—to you alone did it belong
To sin for ever, and yet ne'er do wrong.—
The frauds, the lies of Lords legitimate
Are but fine policy, deep strokes of state;
But let some upstart dare to soar so high
In Kingly craft, and “outlaw” is the cry!
What, though long years of mutual treachery

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Had peopled full your diplomatic shelves
With ghosts of treaties, murder'd 'mong yourselves;
Though each by turns was knave and dupe—what then?
A Holy League would set all straight again;
Like Juno's virtue, which a dip or two
In some bless'd fountain made as good as new!
Most faithful Russia—faithful to whoe'er
Could plunder best, and give him amplest share;
Who, ev'n when vanquish'd, sure to gain his ends,
For want of foes to rob, made free with friends ,
And, deepening still by amiable gradations,
When foes were stript of all, then fleec'd relations!
Most mild and saintly Prussia—steep'd to th' ears
In persecuted Poland's blood and tears,
And now, with all her harpy wings outspread
O'er sever'd Saxony's devoted head!
Pure Austria too—whose hist'ry nought repeats
But broken leagues and subsidiz'd defeats;

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Whose faith, as Prince, extinguish'd Venice shows,
Whose faith, as man, a widow'd daughter knows!
And thou, oh England—who, though once as shy
As cloister'd maids, of shame or perfidy,
Art now broke in, and, thanks to C---gh,
In all that's worst and falsest lead'st the way!

Such was the pure divan, whose pens and wits
Th' escape from Elba frighten'd into fits;—
Such were the saints, who doom'd Napoleon's life,
In virtuous frenzy, to th' assassin's knife.
Disgusting crew!—who would not gladly fly
To open, downright, bold-fac'd tyranny,
To honest guilt, that dares do all but lie,
From the false, juggling craft of men like these,
Their canting crimes and varnish'd villanies;—
These Holy Leaguers, who then loudest boast
Of faith and honour, when they've stain'd them most;
From whose affection men should shrink as loath
As from their hate, for they'll be fleec'd by both;
Who, ev'n while plund'ring, forge Religion's name
To frank their spoil, and, without fear or shame,

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Call down the Holy Trinity to bless
Partition leagues, and deeds of devilishness!
But hold—enough—soon would this swell of rage
O'erflow the boundaries of my scanty page;—
So, here I pause—farewell—another day,
Return we to those Lords of pray'r and prey,
Whose loathsome cant, whose frauds by right divine
Deserve a lash—oh! weightier far than mine!

“Whilst the Congress was re-constructing Europe—not according to rights, natural affiances, language, habits, or laws; but by tables of finance, which divided and subdivided her population into souls, demi-souls, and even fractions, according to a scale of the direct duties or taxes, which could be levied by the acquiring state,” &c. —Sketch of the Military and Political Power of Russia. The words on the protocol are ames, demi-ames, &c.

“L'aigle volera de clocher en clocher, jusqu'aux tours de Notre-Dame.”—Napoleon's Proclamation on landing from Elba.

Singulis annis in quodam Atticæ fonte lota virginitatem recuperâsse fingitur.

At the Peace of Tilsit, where he abandoned his ally, Prussia, to France, and received a portion of her territory.

The seizure of Finland from his relative of Sweden.

The usual preamble of these flagitious compacts. In the same spirit, Catherine, after the dreadful massacre of Warsaw, ordered a solemn “thanksgiving to God in all the churches, for the blessings conferred upon the Poles;” and commanded that each of them should “swear fidelity and loyalty to her, and to shed in her defence the last drop of their blood, as they should answer for it to God, and his terrible judgment, kissing the holy word and cross of their Saviour!”