 | Abaddon, the spirit of destruction ; and other poems |  |
68
THE IMPERIAL SACRIFICE.
This poem was written at the request of my friend John Howard Payne on the occasion of Charles X. laying the corner stone of the monument, in the square of the Tuilleries, to Louis XVI.; one of the most unpopular acts which an ill-established monarch ever committed.
Hear ye the rush that, like the mountain storm,
Rolls deep and awfully along?
Lo! what mute horror, like a sorcerer's charm,
Holds that upgazing throng!
Amazed the unfettered vassal stands
Before his captive lord!
See how he gazes on his blood-red hands
And shakes the purple drops from his uplifted sword.
Rolls deep and awfully along?
Lo! what mute horror, like a sorcerer's charm,
Holds that upgazing throng!
Amazed the unfettered vassal stands
Before his captive lord!
See how he gazes on his blood-red hands
And shakes the purple drops from his uplifted sword.
Where is the monarch? where his train
Of lords and ladies fair?
And where the adoring crowd, whose hearts, like rain
Or dew in summer's air,
Shed light and joy and regal pride
Round Bourbon's royal son?
Hark! 't was a groan as if a monarch died!
The earthquake has begun!
How the vast mass of human life doth move
And tremble like an avalanche on high!
Flows such deep terror from devoted love
And loyal truth and sacred fealty?
Alas! before the palace of his sires,
A glorious line of kings,
The crownless king beneath the axe expires—
The shout of triumph and derision rings.
Of lords and ladies fair?
And where the adoring crowd, whose hearts, like rain
Or dew in summer's air,
Shed light and joy and regal pride
Round Bourbon's royal son?
Hark! 't was a groan as if a monarch died!
The earthquake has begun!
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And tremble like an avalanche on high!
Flows such deep terror from devoted love
And loyal truth and sacred fealty?
Alas! before the palace of his sires,
A glorious line of kings,
The crownless king beneath the axe expires—
The shout of triumph and derision rings.
Lo! where they move in long and dark array
With banner, pall, and shroud!
The smoke of censers dims the eye of day,
Religion cries aloud!
High o'er the pomp of royal funeral rites
In meek devotion paid,
The uplifted cross moves on 'mid thousand lights,
Where a great nation like one hermit tread!
How mournfully, 'mid chanted hymn,
And requiem murmured low,
And orisons round tapers dim,
While countless forms like shadows swim,
The deep knell tolls a nation's wailing woe!
Why throng they round the accursed spot?
Away! it was the deathbed of a king!
O banished Bourbon! knowest thou not
Thy brother perished like a felon here?
O hearst thou not the shout of madness ring?
And seest thou not the badge of death they bear!
Fly, chief betrayed! in silence fly,
Thy throne is stained with blood!
Turn not again thy blasted eye—
They come! they come! like Gierstein's torrent flood.
With banner, pall, and shroud!
The smoke of censers dims the eye of day,
Religion cries aloud!
High o'er the pomp of royal funeral rites
In meek devotion paid,
The uplifted cross moves on 'mid thousand lights,
Where a great nation like one hermit tread!
How mournfully, 'mid chanted hymn,
And requiem murmured low,
And orisons round tapers dim,
While countless forms like shadows swim,
The deep knell tolls a nation's wailing woe!
Why throng they round the accursed spot?
Away! it was the deathbed of a king!
O banished Bourbon! knowest thou not
Thy brother perished like a felon here?
O hearst thou not the shout of madness ring?
And seest thou not the badge of death they bear!
Fly, chief betrayed! in silence fly,
Thy throne is stained with blood!
70
They come! they come! like Gierstein's torrent flood.
Ah! 'twas the dæmon forms of other years,
That hurried o'er my brain;
The miscreant host that drank a nation's tears,
And feasted on the slain.
I see them now—each gory brow,
Each crimson hand—in wrath they stand
E'en on the spot where Louis fell
And Austria's lovely daughter died!
They throng around like shapes of hell,
The sacred pomp of funeral pride,
And shriek and yell and hurtle in the air,
In vain, to mock the rites that doom them to despair.
That hurried o'er my brain;
The miscreant host that drank a nation's tears,
And feasted on the slain.
I see them now—each gory brow,
Each crimson hand—in wrath they stand
E'en on the spot where Louis fell
And Austria's lovely daughter died!
They throng around like shapes of hell,
The sacred pomp of funeral pride,
And shriek and yell and hurtle in the air,
In vain, to mock the rites that doom them to despair.
The sacrifice is paid!
Rest, martyred Louis! in thy glory rest!
Thy riven crown is laid,
Thy broken sceptre on thy bleeding breast.
Rest, for thy requiem hath been said!
Rejoice, thou hearst our prayers among the blest!
Here, on the earth once hallowed by thy blood,
O royal martyr! let thy presence dwell!
Where frantic murderers at thy death hour stood,
And o'er thee raised hate's maddening yell,
With holy joy and sacrificial praise
We build thy temple tomb—thy mausoleum raise!
Rest, martyred Louis! in thy glory rest!
Thy riven crown is laid,
Thy broken sceptre on thy bleeding breast.
Rest, for thy requiem hath been said!
Rejoice, thou hearst our prayers among the blest!
Here, on the earth once hallowed by thy blood,
O royal martyr! let thy presence dwell!
Where frantic murderers at thy death hour stood,
And o'er thee raised hate's maddening yell,
With holy joy and sacrificial praise
We build thy temple tomb—thy mausoleum raise!
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