 | The tri-color ; or the three days of blood, in Paris |  |
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THE THREE DAYS OF BLOOD.
It was on a peerless night,
When the Autumn sky was clear,
And the young moon's gentle light,
Trembled in the balmy air;
In a hall, where lamps were bright,
Gather'd many a form, and there
Were the gay and gallant met,
In a circle, seldom yet,
For rich lips and eyes of jet,
Youthful charms and proud array,
Rivalled in our nether sphere.
There were lords and ladies gay—
Gentle maids, in early prime,
Never breathed upon by Time,
Clustering, like young roses, lay—
Lips, to tempt the Anchorite
From his cold and cheerless cell;
Eyes, in whose meridian light,
Gather'd many a spell!
Vainly would my humble lyre,
Of each crowning influence speak;
Tho' each feeling sense were fire,
Dumb were rapture to inspire—
Language dull and weak.
When the Autumn sky was clear,
And the young moon's gentle light,
Trembled in the balmy air;
In a hall, where lamps were bright,
Gather'd many a form, and there
Were the gay and gallant met,
In a circle, seldom yet,
For rich lips and eyes of jet,
Youthful charms and proud array,
Rivalled in our nether sphere.
There were lords and ladies gay—
Gentle maids, in early prime,
Never breathed upon by Time,
Clustering, like young roses, lay—
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From his cold and cheerless cell;
Eyes, in whose meridian light,
Gather'd many a spell!
Vainly would my humble lyre,
Of each crowning influence speak;
Tho' each feeling sense were fire,
Dumb were rapture to inspire—
Language dull and weak.
Gaily lit was that saloon,
And amid the columns wide—
Through the trees, the yellow moon
Flung her gentle beams beside:—
And upon the watchful ear,
Trilled a trickling fountain near;
Vagrant zephyrs, through the trees,
Made the softest melodies;
From a village cot, afar,
Tinkled light, a rude guitar—
And the song that with it rose,
Heard, at every trembling close,
In a sad and fitful tone,
Was as gentle as its own.
And amid the columns wide—
Through the trees, the yellow moon
Flung her gentle beams beside:—
And upon the watchful ear,
Trilled a trickling fountain near;
Vagrant zephyrs, through the trees,
Made the softest melodies;
From a village cot, afar,
Tinkled light, a rude guitar—
And the song that with it rose,
Heard, at every trembling close,
In a sad and fitful tone,
Was as gentle as its own.
Such the scene, and joyful they,
In that glad assembly were;
Nature, all around, was gay,
And they felt with her:
Pleasing sports of gentlest power,
Won away the rapid hour—
Hearts—true hearts—were then united
Vows—true vows—again were plighted—
Love, for once, had laid aside,
Golden bow and fatal dart,
And with weapon, won his bride,
Meet for young and tender heart—
Tokens treasured near the breast,
Kindred to that throbbing part,
In the passion they confess'd,
Made some other wearer bless'd.
Generous Mirth, his garner'd store,
Fruits that Aden held before,
Lavish'd with profusive mood,
'Midst that happy multitude.
Every cold restraint had fled,
Formal breeding—illy-bred—
Chill decorum—bigot sense;
And their places filled, instead,
With sweet ease and confidence.
In that glad assembly were;
27
And they felt with her:
Pleasing sports of gentlest power,
Won away the rapid hour—
Hearts—true hearts—were then united
Vows—true vows—again were plighted—
Love, for once, had laid aside,
Golden bow and fatal dart,
And with weapon, won his bride,
Meet for young and tender heart—
Tokens treasured near the breast,
Kindred to that throbbing part,
In the passion they confess'd,
Made some other wearer bless'd.
Generous Mirth, his garner'd store,
Fruits that Aden held before,
Lavish'd with profusive mood,
'Midst that happy multitude.
Every cold restraint had fled,
Formal breeding—illy-bred—
Chill decorum—bigot sense;
And their places filled, instead,
With sweet ease and confidence.
Hark! a murmur fills the air—
Wild and sweet the strain that rose,
As if, when some planet sphere
By some fatal destiny,
Driven from its station high,
Through the dim and troubled sky
Wails and murmurs, ere it goes.
And a spell it had o'er all,
In that gay and happy hall,
That had power, at once, to still,
As by some proud monarch's will,
Every murmur to repose.
Lo, the flying dancers pause
In their rapid glad career,
Crowding forth to learn the cause
Of the anthem streaming there.
And the tambourine is mute,
Breathless is the breathing flute;
And the youthful lovers steal
From each close and ivied bower;
Taught, though wrapt in dreams, to feel,
The strong magic of that power.
Wild and sweet the strain that rose,
As if, when some planet sphere
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Driven from its station high,
Through the dim and troubled sky
Wails and murmurs, ere it goes.
And a spell it had o'er all,
In that gay and happy hall,
That had power, at once, to still,
As by some proud monarch's will,
Every murmur to repose.
Lo, the flying dancers pause
In their rapid glad career,
Crowding forth to learn the cause
Of the anthem streaming there.
And the tambourine is mute,
Breathless is the breathing flute;
And the youthful lovers steal
From each close and ivied bower;
Taught, though wrapt in dreams, to feel,
The strong magic of that power.
High, amid the clustering crowd,
Standing on the marble floor—
Rung the song and music loud,
Of a youthful Troubadour.
He was but a boy in years,
And of tender make and look—
With a heart that throbb'd with fears,
And a form, that, though it be
Firm and graceful, as the tree
Growing on high Lebanon,
With his deep emotion, shook.
Yet his spirit was not one,
To desert him at his need;
Well its secret pow'r was known,
And, with gathering thought, at length,
He hath marshall'd up his strength.
Musical as any reed,
He hath bade each maiden gay,
Now, to mute attention, won,
Listen to his lay.
Standing on the marble floor—
Rung the song and music loud,
Of a youthful Troubadour.
He was but a boy in years,
And of tender make and look—
With a heart that throbb'd with fears,
29
Firm and graceful, as the tree
Growing on high Lebanon,
With his deep emotion, shook.
Yet his spirit was not one,
To desert him at his need;
Well its secret pow'r was known,
And, with gathering thought, at length,
He hath marshall'd up his strength.
Musical as any reed,
He hath bade each maiden gay,
Now, to mute attention, won,
Listen to his lay.
Pictured in his witching strain,
Rose upon the enamour'd glance,
The high rule and proud domain,
Well-fill'd city, smiling plain,
Of the glorious realm of France!
Region of the Conqueror,
Whatsoe'er the name he bears—
Where are now the spoils she wore,
Gather'd in the strife of years!
True, that Beauty still hath pow'r,
In each tesselated bower;
And the Muses, prompt to pay,
Wild Devotion's burning lay—
Linger o'er the gentle lute,
While the song is never mute.
There the painter, wooed by taste,
Won by homage, still hath dyes,
Bright and glowing, such as haste,
Fleetly o'er the ev'ning skies.
Minstrelsy and Eloquence
There, alike, their pow'rs combine,
In a language, so intense,
Feeling deems them both divine.
Such the picture that he drew—
But it had its shadows too!
For in sad, and hurried strain,
As if struck by sudden pain,
Murmur'd forth, a requiem came
For the promise of that morn;
Day of splendour, set in shame,
That in victory was born.
Rose upon the enamour'd glance,
The high rule and proud domain,
Well-fill'd city, smiling plain,
Of the glorious realm of France!
Region of the Conqueror,
Whatsoe'er the name he bears—
Where are now the spoils she wore,
Gather'd in the strife of years!
True, that Beauty still hath pow'r,
In each tesselated bower;
And the Muses, prompt to pay,
Wild Devotion's burning lay—
30
While the song is never mute.
There the painter, wooed by taste,
Won by homage, still hath dyes,
Bright and glowing, such as haste,
Fleetly o'er the ev'ning skies.
Minstrelsy and Eloquence
There, alike, their pow'rs combine,
In a language, so intense,
Feeling deems them both divine.
Such the picture that he drew—
But it had its shadows too!
For in sad, and hurried strain,
As if struck by sudden pain,
Murmur'd forth, a requiem came
For the promise of that morn;
Day of splendour, set in shame,
That in victory was born.
And with a high commanding skill,
Not such is often met on earth,
He bade that hall, at once, be still,
And hush'd its voice of mirth.
Strung by a deep and holy power,
With visions dread, he filled the hour—
He bade the past return once more,
And all its captive spoils restore;
The battle field, the fight, the pain,
His wizard music brought again—
With touch, so vivid to the view,
The magic picture that he drew,
That, not an eye within that hall,
But felt and saw and knew it all.
Not such is often met on earth,
He bade that hall, at once, be still,
And hush'd its voice of mirth.
Strung by a deep and holy power,
With visions dread, he filled the hour—
He bade the past return once more,
And all its captive spoils restore;
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His wizard music brought again—
With touch, so vivid to the view,
The magic picture that he drew,
That, not an eye within that hall,
But felt and saw and knew it all.
And first the Imperial sway he sung,
The purple torn, the sceptre wrung,
To glut the Bourbon's pride,
From one, who, in his grasp intense,
Defied the very elements,
As he had earth defied.
But thrown and bound by foreign power,
Ascends the throne in evil hour,
With Albion's mightier aid,
The despot to the Priest allied,
With many a cringing slave beside,
In his high state, arrayed.
Then Charles, the imbecile and tool,
Of juggling scheme and Jesuit school,
Assumes the crown and wields the rule—
Drunk with the spoil he had not won,
And driven by bigot phrensy on,
To dark design, and tyrant aim,
Begun in crime and closed in shame,
And evil time for France:
But vengeance has its day, tho' far,
And he who wakes, shall wail, the war—
And God, the Universal King,
In his appointed hour shall bring,
To make the land, that Tyrants mar,
A fit deliverance!
The purple torn, the sceptre wrung,
To glut the Bourbon's pride,
From one, who, in his grasp intense,
Defied the very elements,
As he had earth defied.
But thrown and bound by foreign power,
Ascends the throne in evil hour,
With Albion's mightier aid,
The despot to the Priest allied,
With many a cringing slave beside,
In his high state, arrayed.
Then Charles, the imbecile and tool,
Of juggling scheme and Jesuit school,
Assumes the crown and wields the rule—
Drunk with the spoil he had not won,
And driven by bigot phrensy on,
To dark design, and tyrant aim,
Begun in crime and closed in shame,
And evil time for France:
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And he who wakes, shall wail, the war—
And God, the Universal King,
In his appointed hour shall bring,
To make the land, that Tyrants mar,
A fit deliverance!
No more the voice of mirth is heard,
For Paris, in her hour of gloom,
Can utter forth no single word,
Save that of vengeance, long prefer'd—
She seems her own vast tomb.
Hath not her monarch, sworn to sway,
As her own rights should still require,
Cast down the laws he should obey,
And mock'd his people's fond desire.
Long had they mark'd, how, pace by pace,
The Tyrant fill'd each guardian place;
O'erthrew the statues, sacred there
To Freedom, and with daring hand,
Built up unnumber'd forms of fear,
That shook, with terror, all the land.
Nor here, alone, content to pause—
Still held, as yet, inviolate,
The charter of her sacred laws,
He destined to an equal fate.
But here, her guardian Genius came,
And when, with ruthless force he stood—
And in his recklessness of shame,
Call'd for his children's blood—
When daring still the smother'd fire,
He trampled on the sacred press;
And in his impotent desire,
To blight the land, he could not bless,
Betray'd his spirit's littleness—
When, like a most unnatural sire,
He bade his gallant subjects bleed,
Heading a low and foreign band,
And, to each sanguinary deed,
Guiding each hireling hand—
Uprose that guardian Genius then,
And marshall'd round her, there they stood
A patriot host of noble men,
True hearts and fearless blood!—
And high the spirit ruling there,
And dread the vengeance of despair;
And fearful, was the warning given,
By that wrong'd people in their might,
To all who claim the gift of heaven,
To sanction crime and trample right.
For Paris, in her hour of gloom,
Can utter forth no single word,
Save that of vengeance, long prefer'd—
She seems her own vast tomb.
Hath not her monarch, sworn to sway,
As her own rights should still require,
Cast down the laws he should obey,
And mock'd his people's fond desire.
Long had they mark'd, how, pace by pace,
The Tyrant fill'd each guardian place;
O'erthrew the statues, sacred there
To Freedom, and with daring hand,
Built up unnumber'd forms of fear,
That shook, with terror, all the land.
Nor here, alone, content to pause—
Still held, as yet, inviolate,
The charter of her sacred laws,
He destined to an equal fate.
But here, her guardian Genius came,
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And in his recklessness of shame,
Call'd for his children's blood—
When daring still the smother'd fire,
He trampled on the sacred press;
And in his impotent desire,
To blight the land, he could not bless,
Betray'd his spirit's littleness—
When, like a most unnatural sire,
He bade his gallant subjects bleed,
Heading a low and foreign band,
And, to each sanguinary deed,
Guiding each hireling hand—
Uprose that guardian Genius then,
And marshall'd round her, there they stood
A patriot host of noble men,
True hearts and fearless blood!—
And high the spirit ruling there,
And dread the vengeance of despair;
And fearful, was the warning given,
By that wrong'd people in their might,
To all who claim the gift of heaven,
To sanction crime and trample right.
And now the song, whose witching tone
Spoke but the soul of gentleness,
To one full burst of phrensy grown,
Rung thro' that listening hall, until
Re-echoed music, wild and shrill,
Went up, from each surrounding hill,
Thro' the aerial wilderness.
Heaved then the close and laboring breast
With the strong accent scarce suppress'd,
And told that minstrel's power, how deep—
Yet, in his dream of song intense,
Unconscious of his influence,
Still did his lyre its burden keep—
And he, who woke its proudest tone,
Of all that gather'd crowd, alone,
He shed no tear, he had no thought
Of all the spell that still he wrought
O'er every heart around—
But wrapt, as one in musing mood,
Who walks the hidden solitude
Unconscious of a sound,
His spirit seem'd to soar away,
Even from his own sweet lay.
Spoke but the soul of gentleness,
To one full burst of phrensy grown,
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Re-echoed music, wild and shrill,
Went up, from each surrounding hill,
Thro' the aerial wilderness.
Heaved then the close and laboring breast
With the strong accent scarce suppress'd,
And told that minstrel's power, how deep—
Yet, in his dream of song intense,
Unconscious of his influence,
Still did his lyre its burden keep—
And he, who woke its proudest tone,
Of all that gather'd crowd, alone,
He shed no tear, he had no thought
Of all the spell that still he wrought
O'er every heart around—
But wrapt, as one in musing mood,
Who walks the hidden solitude
Unconscious of a sound,
His spirit seem'd to soar away,
Even from his own sweet lay.
Then, as the occasion grew more strong,
And foster'd by repeated wrong,
More daring in his insolence,
That Tyrant sought to overthrow,
The bulwarks raised in their defence
'Gainst foreign and domestic foe,
By patriot hearts, that could not be,
While thought was high and freedom dear
The willing tools of Tyranny.
The instruments of fear—
Then rose the hymn of vengeance high,
And in his glowing song portray'd,
Were seen the sons of Liberty,
In panoply array'd.
Yet buckled they no armour then,
But with the hearts of freeborn men,
The unmailed breast, the shout of glee,
The anthem of the daring free,
They gather'd to the fight;—
What banner'd pomp of hireling Swiss
Can force a bulwark firm as this?
The pass of hearts and human right—
Thermopylæ of souls, that stood,
Sure bulwarks in whatever land,
With strong and superhuman might—
Though drench'd and dabbled deep in blood,
That stood, and shall forever stand.
And foster'd by repeated wrong,
More daring in his insolence,
That Tyrant sought to overthrow,
The bulwarks raised in their defence
'Gainst foreign and domestic foe,
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While thought was high and freedom dear
The willing tools of Tyranny.
The instruments of fear—
Then rose the hymn of vengeance high,
And in his glowing song portray'd,
Were seen the sons of Liberty,
In panoply array'd.
Yet buckled they no armour then,
But with the hearts of freeborn men,
The unmailed breast, the shout of glee,
The anthem of the daring free,
They gather'd to the fight;—
What banner'd pomp of hireling Swiss
Can force a bulwark firm as this?
The pass of hearts and human right—
Thermopylæ of souls, that stood,
Sure bulwarks in whatever land,
With strong and superhuman might—
Though drench'd and dabbled deep in blood,
That stood, and shall forever stand.
And thus—he sung, with aspect proud,
On that eventful day when first,
The cataracts of vengeance burst,
And came that furious crowd—
Mix'd in the throng, I saw them rise,
As to a mighty sacrifice,
That grateful seem'd to earth and skies,
In one vast ocean blent.
Solemn their aspect then, and still,
As nature, ere the volcan roars;
Marshall'd along, as some fierce will,
Whose flood, dyked in, and sternly pent,
Has overleapt its narrow shores,
And bounds to meet the firmament.
Roll'd they along in desperate mood,
To where the armed Tyrant stood,
His banner'd slaves around;
Nor daunted at the martial glare,
Of those leagued hireling soldiers there,
Did then, that fearless multitude,
Yield up a foot of ground.
Sternly they claim those ancient rights,
The trophies of a thousand fights,
Their freedom, now debarr'd—
With scorn the Tyrant heard the claim,
And heedless of the pregnant shame,
Advance!—he cried,—my guard!
Oh! Freedom, in thy gathering store
Of hoarded vengeance, boiling o'er,
Hadst thou not one of deadlier birth,
One fitting blow, one meet reward,
To strike that Tyrant down to earth!
True to their ruthless trade, that band,
Of mercenaries, paid and bought,
Obey'd, at once, the dread command—
And in their very homes, and nigh
The altars, rear'd to Liberty—
In streets, for which, their sires had fought,
In homes, endear'd by many a tie,
Of pride and kindred sympathy,
The people were hewn down, and Death,
Shook high his purple flag, imbrued,
In Freedom's own and choicest blood.
But in their proud and parting breath,
Went up the fearful cry of wrath,
Nor rose that cry in vain:
Repulsed, they fled, but not afar,
To gather, for the coming war,
And recompense the slain.
Grim Vengeance, with ensanguined brow,
Bound them, by many a fearful vow—
And, as his gory locks he shook,
Above that crowd, all silent now,
A fatal oath they took.
An oath of dread—and he who heard,
Repeated oft, the solemn word,
Till, in that city's walls, there stood
No single form of human life,
That pledged not then its living blood,
For vengeance in that field of strife.
'Tis midnight, but on high, the moon,
Careering, seeks her highest noon,
Without one speck or cloud, to blight
The passing glory of her light—
Her gentle smile and searching ray,
To man still compensates the day,
With such a pure and quiet grace,
O'er earth and in the realm of space,
Wherein, a throned Queen, she keeps
Her silent sway, while nature sleeps,
No eye can watch her spirit sphere,
And know, it too must pass away,
Nor feel one tear-drop gathering there!
On that eventful day when first,
The cataracts of vengeance burst,
And came that furious crowd—
Mix'd in the throng, I saw them rise,
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That grateful seem'd to earth and skies,
In one vast ocean blent.
Solemn their aspect then, and still,
As nature, ere the volcan roars;
Marshall'd along, as some fierce will,
Whose flood, dyked in, and sternly pent,
Has overleapt its narrow shores,
And bounds to meet the firmament.
Roll'd they along in desperate mood,
To where the armed Tyrant stood,
His banner'd slaves around;
Nor daunted at the martial glare,
Of those leagued hireling soldiers there,
Did then, that fearless multitude,
Yield up a foot of ground.
Sternly they claim those ancient rights,
The trophies of a thousand fights,
Their freedom, now debarr'd—
With scorn the Tyrant heard the claim,
And heedless of the pregnant shame,
Advance!—he cried,—my guard!
Oh! Freedom, in thy gathering store
Of hoarded vengeance, boiling o'er,
Hadst thou not one of deadlier birth,
One fitting blow, one meet reward,
To strike that Tyrant down to earth!
True to their ruthless trade, that band,
37
Obey'd, at once, the dread command—
And in their very homes, and nigh
The altars, rear'd to Liberty—
In streets, for which, their sires had fought,
In homes, endear'd by many a tie,
Of pride and kindred sympathy,
The people were hewn down, and Death,
Shook high his purple flag, imbrued,
In Freedom's own and choicest blood.
But in their proud and parting breath,
Went up the fearful cry of wrath,
Nor rose that cry in vain:
Repulsed, they fled, but not afar,
To gather, for the coming war,
And recompense the slain.
Grim Vengeance, with ensanguined brow,
Bound them, by many a fearful vow—
And, as his gory locks he shook,
Above that crowd, all silent now,
A fatal oath they took.
An oath of dread—and he who heard,
Repeated oft, the solemn word,
Till, in that city's walls, there stood
No single form of human life,
That pledged not then its living blood,
For vengeance in that field of strife.
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Careering, seeks her highest noon,
Without one speck or cloud, to blight
The passing glory of her light—
Her gentle smile and searching ray,
To man still compensates the day,
With such a pure and quiet grace,
O'er earth and in the realm of space,
Wherein, a throned Queen, she keeps
Her silent sway, while nature sleeps,
No eye can watch her spirit sphere,
And know, it too must pass away,
Nor feel one tear-drop gathering there!
'Tis midnight—but the murmuring din,
Proclaims that Paris does not rest;
She holds a fearful craft within,
Her wide and laboring breast.
And ringing arms, and hissing lead,
And threats, of more than human dread,
Attest the rising vengeance there.—
The quiet moonlight, tho' it falls,
With sweetest grace, among her walls,
And lights each gloomy street, and yields
A nameless glory to her fields—
And silvers o'er each rippling water,
That, ere the coming night, shall wear,
The purple hue of slaughter—
Accords not, in its gentler sway,
That mild, and unobtrusive ray,
With those fell spirits which now brood
O'er many a deed of glory done;
The vengeance of the multitude,
The tempests wrath, the ocean's mood,
Less deadly than the angry feud,
Already, more than half begun.
For in its season, slumbering long,
'Neath silent fraud and open wrong,
Even Liberty, though born of love,
And social order, mild as they,
Must now no more its weakness prove,
Must lose the temper of the dove,
And, like the vulture, strike its prey!
With desperate haste they buckle on,
The weapon for the coming toil;
The grey hair'd sire, the beardless son,
And woman too, will she not shun,
The terrors of that coil?
Her soul, for other thought, was made
Than well befits the warlike trade—
And worse than death, beneath her eye,
To see the loved and valiant die—
Her heart was framed in gentler mood,
What would she in a field of blood!
Yet—ready as her aged sire,
She joins the preparation dread;
Prepares the steel and builds the fire,
And pours and moulds the melted lead.
Her kindled eye and glowing cheek,
A common cause of glory, speak;
Nor shrinks she back, with hurried breath,
From each dread instrument of death—
But, in the breathless hour of strife,
Fearless, as at each other hour,
She does not shrink, tho' dangers low'r,
Through fear of death or love of life.
She bids her lover forth, in tears,
Yet buckles on, the brand he wears;
And, with a look, which well repays,
Each struggle of his after-days,
She bids him seek the field of fight,
And strike the foe—and if it need,
For freedom, that a victim bleed,
Himself, to offer for the right.
Proclaims that Paris does not rest;
She holds a fearful craft within,
Her wide and laboring breast.
And ringing arms, and hissing lead,
And threats, of more than human dread,
Attest the rising vengeance there.—
The quiet moonlight, tho' it falls,
With sweetest grace, among her walls,
And lights each gloomy street, and yields
A nameless glory to her fields—
And silvers o'er each rippling water,
That, ere the coming night, shall wear,
39
Accords not, in its gentler sway,
That mild, and unobtrusive ray,
With those fell spirits which now brood
O'er many a deed of glory done;
The vengeance of the multitude,
The tempests wrath, the ocean's mood,
Less deadly than the angry feud,
Already, more than half begun.
For in its season, slumbering long,
'Neath silent fraud and open wrong,
Even Liberty, though born of love,
And social order, mild as they,
Must now no more its weakness prove,
Must lose the temper of the dove,
And, like the vulture, strike its prey!
With desperate haste they buckle on,
The weapon for the coming toil;
The grey hair'd sire, the beardless son,
And woman too, will she not shun,
The terrors of that coil?
Her soul, for other thought, was made
Than well befits the warlike trade—
And worse than death, beneath her eye,
To see the loved and valiant die—
Her heart was framed in gentler mood,
What would she in a field of blood!
Yet—ready as her aged sire,
40
Prepares the steel and builds the fire,
And pours and moulds the melted lead.
Her kindled eye and glowing cheek,
A common cause of glory, speak;
Nor shrinks she back, with hurried breath,
From each dread instrument of death—
But, in the breathless hour of strife,
Fearless, as at each other hour,
She does not shrink, tho' dangers low'r,
Through fear of death or love of life.
She bids her lover forth, in tears,
Yet buckles on, the brand he wears;
And, with a look, which well repays,
Each struggle of his after-days,
She bids him seek the field of fight,
And strike the foe—and if it need,
For freedom, that a victim bleed,
Himself, to offer for the right.
Morn breaks, and with th' awak'ning day,
Begins, anew, the fatal fray,
More deadly than before;
The hoarded wrath of years reveal'd,
Unburied long, yet still conceal'd,
Brings many a spirit to the field,
With vengeance boiling o'er.
Long slumb'ring hate, th' undying mood,
O'er which the trampled soul will brood,
'Till each foul insult, roused anew,
Darkly, terrifically true,
Starts up before the awakened sense,
And claims a deadly recompense.
Thus roused, all Paris firmly stands,
And in the pray'r, to heaven, for aid,
In Freedom's oft-renew'd crusade,
Lifts up her hundred thousand hands.
Each street sends forth its countless host,
Tho' little order now they boast,
Yet marshall'd with a fire intense,
A strong and undivided aim,
Their tools of toil and implements,
Are now, the warlike instruments
Of vengeance and of Fame.
One impulse to ne course must guide,
And headlong leaps the living tide,
Unyielding, unrestrained;
Onward, with newer force each hour,
'Till borne along with furious pow'r,
Each soaring height is gain'd.
What can resist that torrent deep,
That wave, that in its pathway fierce,
Has swept, and in its course, shall sweep,
While Tyrants rule, and nations weep,
The broad and boundless universe.
And, hark! from old Saint Germain, hear
The tolling of its awful bell;
Its tones of terror, on the ear,
Come down, with dismal spell.
A warning sound, it wakes anew
The memory of that dreadful knell,
It rung on Saint Bartholomew!
A fearful day, yet scarce more dread,
Than now, with such infuriate din
To vengeance fit, to terror bred,
It felly, fiercely, ushers in!
And who, that hears its note of fear,
Salute his half-awakened ear,
Like some uncharnell'd spirit's tone,
That mutters in his chamber lone,
When still prevails the midnight hour,
And fills it with a solemn pow'r—
Starts not, from out his sluggard lair,
And pants and trembles to be there;
And in the vague, mysterious mood,
That thwarts and thickens all his blood,
And with a dim abstraction, wrought,
Deeply into the sense of thought,
That buckles on his sword and gropes,
Still torn by warring fears and hopes,
With fluttering sense, to where, the crowd,
Still gather at the summons loud.
That voice has waken'd Paris,—lo!
The reckless thousands come and go,
And shouts of fear, and furious cries,
Of death and vengeance, fill the skies.—
While, from the tower of Notre Dame,
The tocsin rolls its warning tones,
And beckons on, with dread acclaim,
The countless sappers of the thrones.
Begins, anew, the fatal fray,
More deadly than before;
The hoarded wrath of years reveal'd,
Unburied long, yet still conceal'd,
Brings many a spirit to the field,
With vengeance boiling o'er.
41
O'er which the trampled soul will brood,
'Till each foul insult, roused anew,
Darkly, terrifically true,
Starts up before the awakened sense,
And claims a deadly recompense.
Thus roused, all Paris firmly stands,
And in the pray'r, to heaven, for aid,
In Freedom's oft-renew'd crusade,
Lifts up her hundred thousand hands.
Each street sends forth its countless host,
Tho' little order now they boast,
Yet marshall'd with a fire intense,
A strong and undivided aim,
Their tools of toil and implements,
Are now, the warlike instruments
Of vengeance and of Fame.
One impulse to ne course must guide,
And headlong leaps the living tide,
Unyielding, unrestrained;
Onward, with newer force each hour,
'Till borne along with furious pow'r,
Each soaring height is gain'd.
What can resist that torrent deep,
That wave, that in its pathway fierce,
Has swept, and in its course, shall sweep,
While Tyrants rule, and nations weep,
The broad and boundless universe.
42
The tolling of its awful bell;
Its tones of terror, on the ear,
Come down, with dismal spell.
A warning sound, it wakes anew
The memory of that dreadful knell,
It rung on Saint Bartholomew!
A fearful day, yet scarce more dread,
Than now, with such infuriate din
To vengeance fit, to terror bred,
It felly, fiercely, ushers in!
And who, that hears its note of fear,
Salute his half-awakened ear,
Like some uncharnell'd spirit's tone,
That mutters in his chamber lone,
When still prevails the midnight hour,
And fills it with a solemn pow'r—
Starts not, from out his sluggard lair,
And pants and trembles to be there;
And in the vague, mysterious mood,
That thwarts and thickens all his blood,
And with a dim abstraction, wrought,
Deeply into the sense of thought,
That buckles on his sword and gropes,
Still torn by warring fears and hopes,
With fluttering sense, to where, the crowd,
Still gather at the summons loud.
43
The reckless thousands come and go,
And shouts of fear, and furious cries,
Of death and vengeance, fill the skies.—
While, from the tower of Notre Dame,
The tocsin rolls its warning tones,
And beckons on, with dread acclaim,
The countless sappers of the thrones.
They gather at the call—they leap,
As angry billows of the deep,
And, as the foremost waves subside,
Still, others swell the desperate tide—
Then rose above that deadly flood,
A fearful voice, that cried for blood!
For vengeance on the slaves, who dared,
To overturn, in wanton mood,
The altars, which so long had stood,
Secure, mid'st many a deadly feud—
They were employed to guard!
That voice found many an echo then—
The hearts of fifty thousand men,
Responded to the cry—
The ancient towers whose iron jaws
Had minister'd to Tyranny—
Whose sullen womb, had held so long,
The fearless, who in freedom's cause,
Had battled with the strong—
At once, as by an earthquake rent,
Now rock'd in every battlement.
Then shook the Tyrant in his seat,
And crouch'd the bloodhounds at his feet;
The Hydra of uncharter'd pow'r,
Ungorged, and seeking to devour,
That, with a foul and poisonous breath,
Went onward, as the blight of day,
And belch'd forth chains and death—
Supine, recumbent, lay!
The Ithuriel spear of Truth, whose stroke,
The spell of the enchanter broke,
Was fasten'd, with unswerving aim,
And rising spirit, nought could tame,
Upon the writhing monster's throat.
Vain then, his venomous ire, and vain
The wrath which wrung, and idly smote,
But could not break the enduring chain,
Which bridled in the hellish mood
That panted still, and cried for blood.
Then, with its own infernal hate,
Denied o'er other forms to prey
That on the spot, where then it lay,
Struck deep, into its desperate brain,
Soon for itself—for man—too late,
Defrauding the avenging fate!
Then rose the shout of freedom high,
And, from the Hydra's grasp, releas'd,
Sprung up, each son of liberty—
His spirit high, his form erect,
And waving arms, and step, uncheck'd,
And glad, as at a glorious feast.
Ay for the feast!—the feast where Death,
Drinks in his draughts of living breath;
Where Freedom bears the flame that guides,
And Vengeance, all the cheer, provides:—
Where myriads throng the golden gates,
And where no cringing vassal waits;
Where man, with kindred man may meet,
Nor crouch before an equal's feet;
And in his God's, and fellow's sight,
May hold his own, and claim his right;
And prove, but one allegiance given,
To freedom and o'er ruling heaven;
Nor, at the shrine, for which his sires,
Have freely bled, and fairly fought,
Withhold the speech that truth inspires,
Or crush one high and generous thought.
As angry billows of the deep,
And, as the foremost waves subside,
Still, others swell the desperate tide—
Then rose above that deadly flood,
A fearful voice, that cried for blood!
For vengeance on the slaves, who dared,
To overturn, in wanton mood,
The altars, which so long had stood,
Secure, mid'st many a deadly feud—
They were employed to guard!
That voice found many an echo then—
The hearts of fifty thousand men,
Responded to the cry—
The ancient towers whose iron jaws
Had minister'd to Tyranny—
Whose sullen womb, had held so long,
The fearless, who in freedom's cause,
44
At once, as by an earthquake rent,
Now rock'd in every battlement.
Then shook the Tyrant in his seat,
And crouch'd the bloodhounds at his feet;
The Hydra of uncharter'd pow'r,
Ungorged, and seeking to devour,
That, with a foul and poisonous breath,
Went onward, as the blight of day,
And belch'd forth chains and death—
Supine, recumbent, lay!
The Ithuriel spear of Truth, whose stroke,
The spell of the enchanter broke,
Was fasten'd, with unswerving aim,
And rising spirit, nought could tame,
Upon the writhing monster's throat.
Vain then, his venomous ire, and vain
The wrath which wrung, and idly smote,
But could not break the enduring chain,
Which bridled in the hellish mood
That panted still, and cried for blood.
Then, with its own infernal hate,
Denied o'er other forms to prey
That on the spot, where then it lay,
Struck deep, into its desperate brain,
Soon for itself—for man—too late,
Defrauding the avenging fate!
45
And, from the Hydra's grasp, releas'd,
Sprung up, each son of liberty—
His spirit high, his form erect,
And waving arms, and step, uncheck'd,
And glad, as at a glorious feast.
Ay for the feast!—the feast where Death,
Drinks in his draughts of living breath;
Where Freedom bears the flame that guides,
And Vengeance, all the cheer, provides:—
Where myriads throng the golden gates,
And where no cringing vassal waits;
Where man, with kindred man may meet,
Nor crouch before an equal's feet;
And in his God's, and fellow's sight,
May hold his own, and claim his right;
And prove, but one allegiance given,
To freedom and o'er ruling heaven;
Nor, at the shrine, for which his sires,
Have freely bled, and fairly fought,
Withhold the speech that truth inspires,
Or crush one high and generous thought.
Thus glorious in the sight of Heaven,
Shall still the march of Nature be,
Her chains, shall from her wrists, be riven,
And all her children shall be free.
No more the sullen prostitute,
Abased by God and man alike,
She shall throw off the Tyrant's foot,
And all her hands be raised to strike.
The trickling waters shall not hear,
Nor shall the melancholy breeze,
Bear wide, her ineffectual pray'r,
For vengeance, o'er the groaning seas.
But every land, however remote
Its winds shall rise and waters roll,
Shall bear the glorious truth, blood-wrote,
Of freedom to the immortal soul.
The bird, that sings 'mid forest trees,
The maiden, by the blue lake's side,
The man, who dwells, where waters freeze,
Unwarm'd by any living tide—
And he, who 'neath a generous sun,
Where rolls the Guadalatian wave,
Shall own the truth, unfelt by none,
Man was not made, by Heaven, a slave—
To wear a chain, to bend a knee,
Upon that spot of still loved earth,
Which made, but did not keep him, free,
From the first instant of his birth.
Ay, tho' protracted be the hour,
When man, on every shore, shall rise,
He owns, and will exert the power,
And claim the glorious sacrifice.
Already, hark! the tocsin hear,
Slow booms its strong and dreadful voice,
And o'er each land, and in each ear,
It utters man's and freedom's choice.
A few short hours of mortal time,
A few more thoughts—and there shall be,
A quenchless light for every clime,
A beacon o'er the wildest sea!
Shall still the march of Nature be,
Her chains, shall from her wrists, be riven,
And all her children shall be free.
46
Abased by God and man alike,
She shall throw off the Tyrant's foot,
And all her hands be raised to strike.
The trickling waters shall not hear,
Nor shall the melancholy breeze,
Bear wide, her ineffectual pray'r,
For vengeance, o'er the groaning seas.
But every land, however remote
Its winds shall rise and waters roll,
Shall bear the glorious truth, blood-wrote,
Of freedom to the immortal soul.
The bird, that sings 'mid forest trees,
The maiden, by the blue lake's side,
The man, who dwells, where waters freeze,
Unwarm'd by any living tide—
And he, who 'neath a generous sun,
Where rolls the Guadalatian wave,
Shall own the truth, unfelt by none,
Man was not made, by Heaven, a slave—
To wear a chain, to bend a knee,
Upon that spot of still loved earth,
Which made, but did not keep him, free,
From the first instant of his birth.
Ay, tho' protracted be the hour,
When man, on every shore, shall rise,
He owns, and will exert the power,
And claim the glorious sacrifice.
47
Slow booms its strong and dreadful voice,
And o'er each land, and in each ear,
It utters man's and freedom's choice.
A few short hours of mortal time,
A few more thoughts—and there shall be,
A quenchless light for every clime,
A beacon o'er the wildest sea!
49
THE TOMB OF NAPOLEON.
We perceive, by the papers, that a first project of the new French Dynasty, and that, by which it proposes, without doubt, to render itself popular with the many-headed monster, is the removal of the bones of Napoleon from the solitary isle where he suffered, to the enlivening territory over which he reigned. Nor is there, altogether, a lack of fitness and sublimity in this design. It is intended to appropriate, as a fitting mausolem for this sacred deposite, the column in the Place Vendome; a beautiful monument, framed from the cannon, taken by Napoleon at the battle of Austerlitz. A project like this, is particularly calculated to take captive the imaginations, and win the affections of the ardent people to whom it is proposed; and we should not wonder to see the entire
50
It will be seen from the little poem which follows, that we by no means approve of the design in view. We cannot, for ourselves, perceive the wonderful honour that this transfer will do to the immortal subject of regard and consideration; nor can we be made, exactly to perceive, in how much the column in the Place Vendome, will prove more becoming as a monument for Napoleon, than the scene of his trials, death and final repose. In a moral point of view, the reasons we should urge against his removal, must prove full and conclusive. The name of Napoleon is perhaps more perfectly and intimately associated with that of St. Helena, than with any single spot upon the surface of the globe. It appears to his life, precisely in the same relation as the fifth act or catastrophe to the Tragedy which it concludes. The whole life is defective, without it. Here the whole history is comprised and added up, and the sum total put down:—
51
Considered upon a principle of the natural sublime, where can we find a tomb more imposing—more suited to the individual by whom it is occupied, or one better calculated to inspire awe and veneration in the mind of the spectator, than the “ocean isle”—removed as it is from the crowded mart—silent—rocky—solitary—washed by opposing waters, chafed by the unfettered winds that sweep over it from every quarter—with the natural sublimity of which, the puerilities of society cannot conflict, nor the little characteristics of busy life, come in collision? Who will deny that such a tomb is more in unison with the life of the mighty exile—his achievements, sufferings and death, than any mere fabric, the design and the erection of man, situated in a crowded city, and made so familiar and common to the vulgar
52
In Europe—and the spirit is abroad,
Triumphant over Gallia's fair domain,
Subtle and strong, and gathering to a God—
Gaul stands erect, and, for reward too late,
She fain would honor him, who baffled fate,
And shrine the bones of one too long outlawed—
Would give a monument to him, whose fame
Won for himself, and gave to France, his name!
His bones—whose bones? the man who stood
When realms were blazing round,
And all his country's veins run blood,
O'er Moscow's frozen ground—
Who bade his locust armies haste,
O'er Egypt's wild and pathless waste,
Nor deemed the Alps a bound—
Would you for such as him command,
A tomb built up by human hand!
This were a fall, indeed, for him,
Who, in his hour of might,
Beheld his day star never dim,
'Till nature join'd the fight!
53
Leagued with the mightier arm of heav'n,
Against his warrior flight—
Bade his fierce Eagles turn and fly,
From blazing realm and freezing sky.
For him we make the monument
That never can decay;
Which, when the wrath of Time is spent,
May laugh to scorn, his sway.
The Monarch, deem'd legitimate,
May thank his stars, and honor fate,
For shrines of crumbling clay—
But, in thy destiny, we see,
That Nature builds thy tomb for thee.
What other shrine could man have made,
Fit for thy mighty bones;
Thou, whose fierce will and sceptre sway'd,
Thy many sword-bought thrones:
How should he, to the world, convey,
The story of each bloody fray—
How, with his up-piled stones,
That crumble ere they well arise,
Attest thy thousand victories!
But here, as in the battle's shock,
When Nations join in fight,
54
That mocks old Ocean's might—
Thou standest now, as thou hast stood,
Upon the field, that run with blood,
Nor had a thought of flight;
Thy tomb is meet unto thy life,
Proud dweller in a world of strife.
What is a pillar'd spire to thee,
Whose glory, like the sun,
The world, the living world must see,
And empires cannot shun;
No single spot, whate'er its name,
Can add one atom to thy fame—
Thou art that single one,
Whose majesty of self must make,
Each spot a trophy for thy sake.
And far more fit unto thy pride,
That still thy form should sleep
Within the tomb were thou wast tried,
With torture stern and deep:
Of old, the martyr bore the wood,
On which he poured his choicest blood;
And fitter thou should'st keep,
Upon that isle of settled gloom,
Which saw thee suffer, still thy tomb.
55
That isle is now thy own—
And Nations oftener look to thee,
Than on th' imperial throne—
It is not now Saint Helen's strand,
Nor Gaoler England's subject land,
Her tribute claim is gone,
Since there thy sepulchre she reared,
To bury him, the Nations fear'd.
Sleep in thy grave of triumph high,
Thy fame its ruling God—
It is not, to the Pilgrim's eye,
A desolate abode!
The sun that cheers thy rock-girt grave,
Beholds that wild and gloomy wave,
By earth's way-farers trod—
From Nations, far remote, they steer,
To honor him who slumbers there.
They need no tablet to denote
Thy triumph and thy pride;
They ask: “Is this the lonely spot,
Where great Napoleon died!”
A mottoed or a trophied bust,
Were but a mockery of thy dust—
When Albion these denied,
56
She gave thy fame, in trembling still.
Her shame becomes thy trophy, then,
And when thy deeds shall be
A doubtful record among men,
Her fears shall honor thee!
The captive in his prison hall,
The Nations say, could still appal,
The Mistress of the Sea—
Could still, like Eblis thrown and bound,
Rock the whole Earth's foundations round.
And not like other humbler foes,
Did each choice ally dare;
Herded, the monarchs met thy blows,
Nor then conceal'd their fear.
They trembled, though o'erthrown, to chain,
Their captive in their own domain—
But in the ocean drear,
They call'd upon the rocks and sea,
To yield a prison house for thee!
There take thy rest—mausoleum meet,
Which gathering worlds may see—
A column, in a princely street,
Could add no pride to thee—
57
The brass of Austerlitz might shine,
And fit memorial be;
For him, whose life, was one long chain
Of glorious triumphs, it were vain.
58
ODE ON THE LATE POPULAR SUCCESSES.
Well have the nations spoken.—Nature, well,
Hast thou sprung up, at last, to chain thy right;
And on their hearths, and in thy people's sight,
And on the graves, where their old fathers fell,
The glorious and for aye recorded graves,
Where earth first taught her children to rebel,
Against the Tyrants who would make them slaves,
Thou hast stood forth, and rung the fearful knell,
The tocsin of the free heart—which must spread,
Wherever man shall make his home and be,
What nature and his God have made him, free,
And wear unshackled limbs and lift a Freeman's head—
And look upon the orb, whose kindling glance,
Foe to all darkness, walks the untrammell'd day,
And holds out shows of high deliverance,
To all who dare pursue a kindred way.
He melts the fetters of the frost, he breaks
The chains of ice which binds the settled lakes,
His march is o'er the mountains, and he sees
Far as the earth is spread, and with the breeze,
The wide expanse and limitless domain,
Which, from each barrier and from ev'ry chain,
His subtle and pervading spirit, frees.
Hast thou sprung up, at last, to chain thy right;
And on their hearths, and in thy people's sight,
And on the graves, where their old fathers fell,
The glorious and for aye recorded graves,
Where earth first taught her children to rebel,
Against the Tyrants who would make them slaves,
Thou hast stood forth, and rung the fearful knell,
The tocsin of the free heart—which must spread,
Wherever man shall make his home and be,
What nature and his God have made him, free,
And wear unshackled limbs and lift a Freeman's head—
And look upon the orb, whose kindling glance,
Foe to all darkness, walks the untrammell'd day,
59
To all who dare pursue a kindred way.
He melts the fetters of the frost, he breaks
The chains of ice which binds the settled lakes,
His march is o'er the mountains, and he sees
Far as the earth is spread, and with the breeze,
The wide expanse and limitless domain,
Which, from each barrier and from ev'ry chain,
His subtle and pervading spirit, frees.
Shines he not forth for man? Yields he not some
Of that true fire to earth? It was no dream,
No fable that the ancient spoke, who said,
That when the first glance of his glorious beam,
With dawn, came down upon old Memnon's head,
It spoke—the marble was no longer dumb.
Sweet music from the cold lips, like a spell,
Upon the slumb'ring sense that heard it, fell—
Life was the boon, Apollo brought, to free
The barren rock—who reads the enigma well,
Shall learn that life was Light and Liberty.
Of that true fire to earth? It was no dream,
No fable that the ancient spoke, who said,
That when the first glance of his glorious beam,
With dawn, came down upon old Memnon's head,
It spoke—the marble was no longer dumb.
Sweet music from the cold lips, like a spell,
Upon the slumb'ring sense that heard it, fell—
Life was the boon, Apollo brought, to free
The barren rock—who reads the enigma well,
Shall learn that life was Light and Liberty.
Shall that truth be unread?—shall man grope on,
A kindred thing to darkness—bent, bow'd down,
Dust on his forehead, chains upon his hands,
Whilst one can feel the sunlight, and the other,
Driven by the spirit which no sway can smother,
Can grasp and wield the exterminating brands.
Shall not that sunlight, pregnant as it is
With life, the inextinguishable life,
Prolong'd through each reverse, unquench'd by strife,
A part and parcel of the immortal spirit,
Though long by fraud withheld, at last, be his.
Shall he not claim his birth right, and inherit,
The garment of his very nature, wrought,
Into his kindred soul and garner'd there,
A principle of first born, natural thought,
'Twere foreign to his essence, not to share—
Portioned unto his being, at the first,
And in the fountain of all spirit, nurst,
Slumb'ring, at times, and trampled, but at length,
Destined, each link that holds it down, to burst,
With its own deep, and terror-rousing strength.
A kindred thing to darkness—bent, bow'd down,
Dust on his forehead, chains upon his hands,
Whilst one can feel the sunlight, and the other,
60
Can grasp and wield the exterminating brands.
Shall not that sunlight, pregnant as it is
With life, the inextinguishable life,
Prolong'd through each reverse, unquench'd by strife,
A part and parcel of the immortal spirit,
Though long by fraud withheld, at last, be his.
Shall he not claim his birth right, and inherit,
The garment of his very nature, wrought,
Into his kindred soul and garner'd there,
A principle of first born, natural thought,
'Twere foreign to his essence, not to share—
Portioned unto his being, at the first,
And in the fountain of all spirit, nurst,
Slumb'ring, at times, and trampled, but at length,
Destined, each link that holds it down, to burst,
With its own deep, and terror-rousing strength.
Though long the night, and dark—there is a day
When he must waken. It is well to sleep!—
Repose wins power, and the old shepherd's say,
That in the æry where the Eagles keep,
They slumber for long seasons, to arise,
With nerve renew'd, to hold their sunward way,
Aloft and glorious through their kindred skies.
That day has come, and to his nature true,
Upward, the giant—roused, refreshed and strong,
Leaps from his sleep of ages, to renew,
The struggle for his birthright and regain,
The guerdon of his being—to retake,
The rich spoil—from the spoiler, and to slake,
In the oppressor's blood, himself hath slain,
His vengeance, fondly nursed and cherished long,
For each transgression and for every wrong.
And thus commissioned, well hath he pursued,
The prey, so long triumphant in success;
Insatiate rapine, quenchless, unsubdued,
That, with the serpent's tooth and tiger's mood,
Wantoned in blood, nor felt its hunger less.
The stern pursuer hath been taught to fly,
The prowler hath delivered up his prey,
Himself the victim of a destiny,
No less remorseless, but more just than they
Were doom'd to meet, his madness sought to slay.
When he must waken. It is well to sleep!—
Repose wins power, and the old shepherd's say,
That in the æry where the Eagles keep,
They slumber for long seasons, to arise,
With nerve renew'd, to hold their sunward way,
Aloft and glorious through their kindred skies.
That day has come, and to his nature true,
Upward, the giant—roused, refreshed and strong,
61
The struggle for his birthright and regain,
The guerdon of his being—to retake,
The rich spoil—from the spoiler, and to slake,
In the oppressor's blood, himself hath slain,
His vengeance, fondly nursed and cherished long,
For each transgression and for every wrong.
And thus commissioned, well hath he pursued,
The prey, so long triumphant in success;
Insatiate rapine, quenchless, unsubdued,
That, with the serpent's tooth and tiger's mood,
Wantoned in blood, nor felt its hunger less.
The stern pursuer hath been taught to fly,
The prowler hath delivered up his prey,
Himself the victim of a destiny,
No less remorseless, but more just than they
Were doom'd to meet, his madness sought to slay.
The fiat hath been spoken. Nature's God,
To Nature hath been just. His lifted rod,
Hath smote the Tyrant, in his very hall,
Of mingling crime, and pride and festival.
The plagues, that on his people hath been sent,
Of death and chains and foreign banishment,
Upon his own head, triply deep, come down—
Exile, and wounds and death, shall tame the sway
That crush'd the promise of earth's generous fruits,
And struck the axe unto Life's very roots,
Obscured the sun's blest light, and threw a cloud o'er day.
Gloomy, the Bourbon imbecile hath gone,
Reft of all power, upon his path, alone,
Unpitied in his fall, unhonor'd on his way:
While the base jackals, which had urged him on,
To the strange madness of his worthless reign,
Shall perish, with the thousands, they have slain,
A by-word, and a mockery, and a jest,
Some, shall deride with scorn, and some, more just, detest.
To Nature hath been just. His lifted rod,
Hath smote the Tyrant, in his very hall,
Of mingling crime, and pride and festival.
The plagues, that on his people hath been sent,
Of death and chains and foreign banishment,
Upon his own head, triply deep, come down—
Exile, and wounds and death, shall tame the sway
That crush'd the promise of earth's generous fruits,
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Obscured the sun's blest light, and threw a cloud o'er day.
Gloomy, the Bourbon imbecile hath gone,
Reft of all power, upon his path, alone,
Unpitied in his fall, unhonor'd on his way:
While the base jackals, which had urged him on,
To the strange madness of his worthless reign,
Shall perish, with the thousands, they have slain,
A by-word, and a mockery, and a jest,
Some, shall deride with scorn, and some, more just, detest.
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ALGIERS AND FRANCE.
The Dey of Algiers, is reported to have been highly tickled at the downfal of Charles X. This proves most conclusively, the assertion of an old Frenchman on a former similar occasion, that there was little or no sympathy among the great. Not that we would, for a moment, disparage in so far the pretension of the latter Ex-Monarch, as to put him upon a footing with the former potentate. Although as great a scoundrel, we can hardly consider Charles so great a man, or one, so likely to satisfy the demands of his subjects, as him of Algiers. But the parallel is otherwise irresistible and we leave our muse to pursue it. The Dey is reported to have said, on hearing of Charles' downfal, “ha! The great man drove me from my throne, yet, was not the master of his own His people have now driven him from his.”
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Whisker'd, mustachioed, to the very eyes;
And dost thou hold thyself up, at this high rate,
Comparing thyself to their majesties,
The sovereigns of the Christian world—those gentry
Renowned in peace and war, and thro' all ages,
Who over Christendom have long stood sentry,
And fill'd so many of its wondrous pages.
What claim hast thou, thou Turkish raggamuffin,
Chief of some hundred camels and a harem—
From both of which, the French, thy spoils are stuffing,
And all that thou canst do, can never scare 'em.
What claim, I ask, thou dog, hadst thou to offer
To place thyself alongside le longue homme?
Thy bags of mocha, surely, and thy coffer,
Of illy got piastres—stolen from,
Some of thy thousand cruisers, could not warrant
The insolence of spirit, which would dare,
Lift up to Charles' mark, one so abhorrent,
A Turk—though he be monarch at Algier.
Thou hadst but little skill in diplomatic—
Wast not a statesman—had'st not at thy back,
A prince, so very able and pragmatic,
As the tall king possess'd in Polignac.
Thy beard—in this respect I do not flatter—
Was not of the true color—though you seem,
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Believe me, 'tis more weighty than you deem.
Your subjects—and in this you both agree well—
Were made your common implements and tools;
And while the humble creatures fail'd to see well,
There were not many found to break your rules.
In this, sufficient likeness lay between you,
To make your after fortunes parallel—
Your council in both cases fail'd to screen you,
From the just fate you both deserv'd so well.
Thou had'st, 'tis true, thy own worth in partic'lar—
Thou did'st not take the Lord's name to deceive;
Nor wert thou, in Church sacrifice, a stickler,
And had'st no high inducement to believe—
When that thy spirit craved for blood, it had it,
Nor ask'd permission from the Hall of Peers—
When thou did'st lack a subject's head, thou bad it,
Come off, with moustache, whiskers, nose and ears.
Thou sought'st no charter for thy slaves' undoing,
It was enough, thy spirit craved to see
A rich old Jew upon the road to ruin,
His gold first stor'd within thy treasury—
A Greek girl in thy Harem—a Circassian,
Inviting as the vale where she had birth—
And thou would'st have them all, what'er the fashion,
Of human right or law upon the earth;
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Or bow-string send, to chief, belov'd the most,
Inviting him, in the most courteous manner,
To send his head back, by return of post.
Thou said'st thy pray'rs, or made thy Emirs say 'em,
A practice which they did not dare refuse—
Mild were thy laws, though did they not obey 'em,
They were not long allow'd to pick and choose;
They never sought to modify, but took 'em,
As men take wives, for better or for worse;
They hugg'd their fates, nor ever yet forsook 'em,
Howe'er the blessing might become a curse.
And Charles was fill'd with joy without reflection,
With that proud sway, that to his kingly view,
Seem'd then, the very acme of perfection,
Best model of a government, he knew—
And sought to build upon a like foundation,
A priestly monarchy in close divan—
But July is too hot for reformation,
And so the monarch melted to the man:
Then sunk into the coward—then departed
With the crown jewels stepping to his carriage,
With his more tory wife, now broken hearted,
In weather of the warmest, since their marriage.
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Unlike the monarch, in resistless force,
They took their private carriage, much complaining,
Preferring chariot driving, to the horse.
They say he shoots his gun without a license,
In merry England, at each random hare,
Nor sees the cutting humor and the sly sense,
With which the sturdy yeomen hail him there.
They recommend, and 'tis a wise suggestion,
That you and Charley, open public house;
Together, you will pass without much question,
Nor suffer for much poaching on the grouse:
You can attend the bar, and Charles the table,
Madame provide the supper and the cheer,
And some of your fresh damsels, young and able,
Make up the beds, and all the chambers air—
Bourmont may be the Ostler, and Ragusa
Would make a clever Boots, without much lacking—
And hear and heed, the ready call, of “you sir,
“Why are my pumps this morning without blacking!”
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NAPOLEON'S PROPHECY.
It is said by Dr. O'Meara, in his “Voice from St. Helena,” (page 160,) that Napoleon conversed much upon the probability of a Revolution in France. “Ere twenty years have elapsed when I am dead and buried,” said he, “you will witness another Revolution in France. It is impossible that twenty nine millions of Frenchmen can live contented under the yoke of sovereigns imposed upon them by foreigners, and against whom they have fought and bled for nearly thirty years. Can you blame the French for not being willing to submit to the yoke of such animals as Monchenu.”
Without conceding much of the wizard spirit to Napoleon, on the present occasion, the inference being fairly deducible from the circumstances attending the restoration of the Bourbon Dynasty, we must nevertheless
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And the people so gallant in peace and in war,
Shall slumber supinely when liberty rallies,
And waves her proud ensign of triumph afar;—
Content in her chains, and unconscious of glory,
Untroubled by shame, and unfit to be free,
Shall the nation, already immortal in story,
To the tyrants they've fought with so long, bend the knee.
Believe it not stranger—though now they dissemble,
Since weaken'd by fight, and by fraud overthrown;
They will rise in their strength, and the tyrants shall tremble,
Who for thirty long years they have fought with alone:
Then, who shall resist the fierce strength of that power,
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With one spirit endued, at the same glorious hour,
To strike for the honour and freedom of France!
Believe not, that long, 'neath the shroud of dishonor,
Her national spirit will slumber in shame;
Already, the day-star is bursting upon her,
And guiding her feet back to glory and fame;
No spot on her shield and no stain on her story,
No chain on her wrist and no cloud on her brow,
Through the mists of the future, I beacon her glory,
As bright and as perfect as if it were now.
She will blush for her shame—she will rise with the terror,
The wrath and the power of freedom, alike;
And dearly the Tyrant shall pay for his error,
And firmly and fairly shall Liberty strike:—
No lip shall reprove them, no power subdue them,
No folly mislead them, but firm as the shore,
They shall rise for their rights, and the nations shall view them
Asserting their freedom, and taking no more.
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THE TRI-COLOR.
Glory to the Tri-color,
Gallant emblem of the free,
Trampled long, in dust and gore,
Still the sign of Liberty.
Lo! again, in pride it soars,
And the gallant heart admires,
Freedom, that thy noblest shores,
Cherish children like their sires.
High in beauty it ascendeth,
In the world's admiring eyes,
Gracefully each colour blendeth,
'Neath the warm, approving skies.
Emblem of the ever true,
First, appears the eternal blue;
Purity and Truth are seen
In the lily's white between,
To these, join the living red,
Sign of blood, so often shed,
For the rights, which kings had better,
Well consult, before they fetter.
Gallant emblem of the free,
Trampled long, in dust and gore,
Still the sign of Liberty.
Lo! again, in pride it soars,
And the gallant heart admires,
Freedom, that thy noblest shores,
Cherish children like their sires.
High in beauty it ascendeth,
In the world's admiring eyes,
Gracefully each colour blendeth,
'Neath the warm, approving skies.
Emblem of the ever true,
First, appears the eternal blue;
Purity and Truth are seen
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To these, join the living red,
Sign of blood, so often shed,
For the rights, which kings had better,
Well consult, before they fetter.
Glory to the Tri-color—
Long in beauty may it wave,
Trod by Tyrant's feet, no more,
O'er the lofty and the brave.
Freedom has no higher sign
In the archives of her trust,
And, in splendor, it shall shine,
When the regal crown is dust.
May the form that bows before it
Hold its quarrel to the last,
And the Heav'n that gathers o'er it,
Shield it from each angry blast—
Consecrate each gallant martyr,
Who has bled for Freedom's charter,
While his blood, so freely ta'en,
Shall not then be spilt in vain—
Other spirits shall appear,
Proud as those who perish'd there,
Gifted with the aspirations,
Which have bless'd and saved the nations.
Long in beauty may it wave,
Trod by Tyrant's feet, no more,
O'er the lofty and the brave.
Freedom has no higher sign
In the archives of her trust,
And, in splendor, it shall shine,
When the regal crown is dust.
May the form that bows before it
Hold its quarrel to the last,
And the Heav'n that gathers o'er it,
Shield it from each angry blast—
Consecrate each gallant martyr,
Who has bled for Freedom's charter,
While his blood, so freely ta'en,
Shall not then be spilt in vain—
Other spirits shall appear,
Proud as those who perish'd there,
Gifted with the aspirations,
Which have bless'd and saved the nations.
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A TRIBUTE.
To the two young citizens of the United States, who, at the first rising of the Parisians in the late struggle, took up arms in the cause of liberty, and on the day of its commencement, perished in the conflict.
Glory, unto the gallant youths, who stood,Generous and firm, in freedom's sacred van;
Unshrinking, who poured forth their dearest blood,
Asserting, dying for, the rights of man!
And glory to the banners of that nation
Whose sacred name they bore, and with whose spirit,
Proudly endued, who took their fearless station,
With those who did a common cause inherit!
They shall have glory—undiminished glory,
Well registered, and written down in story.
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In recollection vague, or dim tradition,
As do the giant bones that fill our land,
Wrecks of some mighty ruins of the past—
Relic of monster's whose o'ergrown condition,
The very God that made them, had to blast!
High honor to our countrymen—the brave,
Who did not shrink from the impending strife,
But, taught in the true principle, who gave,
Freely in Freedom's cause their blood and life.
They shall have memories in the coming hours,
And choicest recollections, which shall be,
Green as the summer's leaves and fresh as flow'rs,
That, thro' all seasons bloom eternally.
Their memories shall be trophies, and shall stand,
Linked with the martyrs who have bled before,
A crowning monument in every land,
A quenchless beacon for each storm-wrapt shore.
Their deeds and fate, well chronicled shall be,
Among the living archives of the free,
And though unknown each unrequited name,
Theirs is a title to undying fame—
The unchiselled marble under which they sleep,
Shall hold a record which shall firmer keep,
Even than itself, the memory of the fate,
Which bore without a name, a glorious date.
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How all around have names, but those below—
And then shall learn, that pilgrims, when the flame
Of Freedom rose, from foreign shores, who came,
Assailed the Tyrant monster in his den,
And bled and perish'd, for their fellow men;
Nor claimed a bust, nor asked a shrine or tear,
To win one tribute for their bloody bier.
| The tri-color ; or the three days of blood, in Paris | |