An Elegy on Marie Antoinette of Austria, Ci-Devant Queen of France: with a poem on the last interview between The King of Poland and Loraski. Written by Ann Yearsley |
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 | An Elegy on Marie Antoinette |  |
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An Elegy on Marie Antoinette, of Austria, Ci-Devant Queen of France.
How may I stay pale Murder's ruthless Hand!
How plead with Men, who Mercy most despise!
Time eager shakes for them his ebbing Sand,
Soon shall their Spirits rove thro' troubled Skies.
How plead with Men, who Mercy most despise!
Time eager shakes for them his ebbing Sand,
Soon shall their Spirits rove thro' troubled Skies.
Yet Time shall linger on this tragic Tale,
As down the Steeps of Fate he drives the Hours;
His Sighs be heard along the shadowy Vale,
And Pity follow, wrapt in pearly Show'rs.
As down the Steeps of Fate he drives the Hours;
His Sighs be heard along the shadowy Vale,
And Pity follow, wrapt in pearly Show'rs.
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Haste, hoary Sire! seek in some wild afar,
Where Angel-Melody conceals her Lyre,
Broke are its Chords by Iron-footed War,
Rebellion growls, when Nature should inspire.
Where Angel-Melody conceals her Lyre,
Broke are its Chords by Iron-footed War,
Rebellion growls, when Nature should inspire.
Bow down, ye Woods! Stream lend thy softest Song,
Sea, roll thou gently to thy roughest Shore!
Wind, o'er the Tow'rs of France the Strain prolong,
And drown in Notes of Woe, Rebellion's Roar.
Sea, roll thou gently to thy roughest Shore!
Wind, o'er the Tow'rs of France the Strain prolong,
And drown in Notes of Woe, Rebellion's Roar.
Rise ev'ry Grace that gilds a pitying world!
Lo! Melody leans on the Wing of Time:
Murder is musing!....Ocean sleeps uncurl'd,
While sacred Sorrow fills the farthest Clime.
Lo! Melody leans on the Wing of Time:
Murder is musing!....Ocean sleeps uncurl'd,
While sacred Sorrow fills the farthest Clime.
Marie! the beauteous Marie yields to Woe,
Deep in yon Cell reclines the Mourner's Head,
Her Charms are with'ring, while her Troubles grow,
Her Fancy wanders round her Marble Bed.
Deep in yon Cell reclines the Mourner's Head,
Her Charms are with'ring, while her Troubles grow,
Her Fancy wanders round her Marble Bed.
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The Moon looks pensive to her sleepless Eye,
Damps shine unnotic'd on her Prison Wall,
Her gentle Spirit fain would pass the Sky,
She fancies yet her murder'd Lord may call.
Damps shine unnotic'd on her Prison Wall,
Her gentle Spirit fain would pass the Sky,
She fancies yet her murder'd Lord may call.
O never, never! Marie, may thy Lord
Look back on this injurious World!....No More
Love, Peace or Comfort, thee their Joys afford,
Yet, all shall greet thee on a brighter Shore.
Look back on this injurious World!....No More
Love, Peace or Comfort, thee their Joys afford,
Yet, all shall greet thee on a brighter Shore.
Being shall never an Extinction know,
Tho' gloomy Guilt may “wish eternal Sleep,”
O'er boundless Region's MIND must ever go,
While Nature o'er our broken Forms may weep.
Tho' gloomy Guilt may “wish eternal Sleep,”
O'er boundless Region's MIND must ever go,
While Nature o'er our broken Forms may weep.
Much injur'd Beauty! Envy soils thy Fame,
(The motley-Million poisons more than thine,)
Yet Truth shall burst! in awful Glory flame,
And all shall vanish, but her spotless Line.
(The motley-Million poisons more than thine,)
Yet Truth shall burst! in awful Glory flame,
And all shall vanish, but her spotless Line.
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Thy Record Truth! shall on her Tomb be hung!
Gallia shall read it with a tearful Eye;
Envy in Silence drop her blister'd Tongue,
While gen'rous Virtue lifts thy Tablet high.
Gallia shall read it with a tearful Eye;
Envy in Silence drop her blister'd Tongue,
While gen'rous Virtue lifts thy Tablet high.
Thus Melody from Gallia wand'ring, fill'd
The Valley, Grove, and Woodland, with her Strain,
The list'ning Shepherd, in her Rule unskill'd,
Felt all her Langours,....but he felt in Vain!
The Valley, Grove, and Woodland, with her Strain,
The list'ning Shepherd, in her Rule unskill'd,
Felt all her Langours,....but he felt in Vain!
On burnish'd Spears now Phœbus strikes his Beam,
The Tone of gentle Languishment recedes;
Horror advances, all her Spectres scream,
This Moment Marie's Woe-fraught Bosom bleeds.
The Tone of gentle Languishment recedes;
Horror advances, all her Spectres scream,
This Moment Marie's Woe-fraught Bosom bleeds.
O'er her pale Beauties, Hist'ry stands amaz'd,
The Pencil trembles as she draws her Lines,
While Marie, on whom Crowds with Pleasure gaz'd,
On the cold Bosom of her Lord reclines.
The Pencil trembles as she draws her Lines,
While Marie, on whom Crowds with Pleasure gaz'd,
On the cold Bosom of her Lord reclines.
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Turn Death to thy Dominion!....rise ye Pair,
The Darkness of the Grave ill suits the Soul;
Together soar beyond the Realms of Air
And, lost in grateful Wonder, view THE WHOLE.
The Darkness of the Grave ill suits the Soul;
Together soar beyond the Realms of Air
And, lost in grateful Wonder, view THE WHOLE.
There, will you see the willing Ages run,
With all their Atoms in an endless Round;
Obedient to the Father of the Sun,
Whose Breathing joins them thro' the vast profound.
With all their Atoms in an endless Round;
Obedient to the Father of the Sun,
Whose Breathing joins them thro' the vast profound.
There, will you own that Nature never Wars
With her great MASTER, tho' her Forms may change,
Tho' Treason, Murder, all the Soul abhors,
Must, in the universal Mixture, range
On Earth, if soft Reflection may avail,
To soothe the gentle Mind at this sad Scene,
Oft to yon Moon, she'll breathe your hapless Tale,
And o'er your slighted Grave be ever seen.
With her great MASTER, tho' her Forms may change,
Tho' Treason, Murder, all the Soul abhors,
Must, in the universal Mixture, range
On Earth, if soft Reflection may avail,
To soothe the gentle Mind at this sad Scene,
Oft to yon Moon, she'll breathe your hapless Tale,
And o'er your slighted Grave be ever seen.
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On The Last Interview between the King of Poland, and Loraski
Loraski, mark'd by War and worn with Years,
Heard Russia's Threats, and saw his King in Tears:
No more, he cried, O Sun! I bless thy Light,
Thy Blaze of Glory dims my aching Sight,
Blush and withdraw!—here Slav'ry takes her Stand,—
O blast the Fiend, and seek some happier Land!
Her Chains are round our lofty Turrets thrown,
They bind a panting Monarch to his Throne;
Beneath their Weight, I see my Master lie,
His Crown dis-figured while his Courtiers fly!
Shall old Loraski see his King undone,
While Cowards take those shameful Fetters on?
O no! while free, a last Adieu I'll give,
And teach my Sov'reign why I cannot live.
Stung by Despair, he from his Pillow flew
Ere thirsty Sol had drank the Morning Dew,
Paus'd at the Door, he sought with so much Haste
Lest he should break that Sleep the wretched taste,
For sacred is that Sleep—his Pause was vain,
The Monarch's Pillow held the Thorn of Pain;
Within, the fervent Strain of Pray'r arose,
The King was kneeling o'er his Peoples' Woes:
Sighs broke his Voice, it half dissolv'd in Air,
And “Poland's Freedom” dy'd upon the Ear:
Impatient, the lov'd Warrior heard no more,
Beside his King he wildly struck the Floor,
Who smiling, clasp'd him to his gen'rous Breast,
Hush'd his own Cares to make Loraski blest.
What Gift would my old faithful Soldier crave?
The mourning Hero, firmly cried,—a Grave.
Grant me thy Leave to die, I've liv'd for thee,
Nor scorn the Man, who fain would leave thee free,
Thou! on whose Wisdom rested all our Cares,
Beneath whose Statutes grew the peaceful Years,
Whose patient Arm put by the Shafts of Fate,
And held the Fabric of this trembling State!
But we must part!—farewell!—the King replied,
While down his Bosom the soft Tear would glide,
Loraski, grieve not in this trying Hour,
Thy feeble Limbs have sympathetic Pow'r!
While round me thus, thy faithful Arms are thrown,
I drink thy Sorrow, and forget my own;
True, my fair Kingdom like some fertile Field,
Rich in herself did self-rais'd Comforts yield,
Each Peasant free around his Ev'ning Fire,
Simply enjoy'd all Nature need require,
Whilst I, the Father of my Subjects lay,
On gorgeous Pillows, weeping Night away,
I heard the Chains forging by Russia, saw
Her hoary Statesmen wrest each human Law,
Observ'd her weigh my Crown, nor could redeem
My long-lov'd Poles,—Injustice held the Beam:
Alarm'd, I stretch'd my Arm, surrounding Kings,
Who nicely touch Fraud's everlasting Springs,
Look'd on, nor deign'd to raise this heavy Chain
Thrown on my Neck, for ever to remain!
Ah! what avails one independent Mind,
While black Corruption aims her Shafts behind;
While Russia, like the Cimbrian Host of old,
O'er-runs the astonish'd World in search of Gold;
Roots up its Bosom for the fatal Ore,
And daunts e'en Pitt, on Albion's rocky Shore?
Lurking in Secret, veering to and fro',
She ey'd my Crown, yet fear'd to strike the Blow;
Till Prussia's Force with her dark Av'rice join'd,
When Fraud shook high her Serpents in the Wind.
How long cries Russia, Vet'rans, will ye see
One daring Rival 'twixt the World and me?
The Universe I'll own!—my Legions lead
O'er Poland's Hills, thro' ev'ry verdant Mead;
Mark ev'ry Shrub, crop ev'ry blushing Flow'r,
Teach ev'ry Oak to nod at Russia's Pow'r.
Empire, Loraski, is the Tyrant's Boast,
But can the spacious Wilds I lately lost,
Sate that unhappy Soul by Av'rice curst?
Sooner the Sun-burnt Glebe shall cease to thirst,
Sooner Leviathan shall graze the Shore
Than Tyrants say, our Plunder now is o'er.
Loraski lov'd as much as he rever'd,
The Father of the Poles, and silent heard;
But the Recital of his Country's Woe
No Gleam of Warmth, could on his Spirit throw;
Chill'd were his Pow'rs in Fetters of Despair,
Too stubborn e'en to shed one soften'd Tear.
The Monarch saw his troubled Passions roll,
O'er the vast Region of his wasted Soul;
While inward Anguish spread her Gloom around,
And no Relief in Language could be found.
Heard Russia's Threats, and saw his King in Tears:
No more, he cried, O Sun! I bless thy Light,
Thy Blaze of Glory dims my aching Sight,
Blush and withdraw!—here Slav'ry takes her Stand,—
O blast the Fiend, and seek some happier Land!
Her Chains are round our lofty Turrets thrown,
They bind a panting Monarch to his Throne;
Beneath their Weight, I see my Master lie,
His Crown dis-figured while his Courtiers fly!
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While Cowards take those shameful Fetters on?
O no! while free, a last Adieu I'll give,
And teach my Sov'reign why I cannot live.
Stung by Despair, he from his Pillow flew
Ere thirsty Sol had drank the Morning Dew,
Paus'd at the Door, he sought with so much Haste
Lest he should break that Sleep the wretched taste,
For sacred is that Sleep—his Pause was vain,
The Monarch's Pillow held the Thorn of Pain;
Within, the fervent Strain of Pray'r arose,
The King was kneeling o'er his Peoples' Woes:
Sighs broke his Voice, it half dissolv'd in Air,
And “Poland's Freedom” dy'd upon the Ear:
Impatient, the lov'd Warrior heard no more,
Beside his King he wildly struck the Floor,
Who smiling, clasp'd him to his gen'rous Breast,
Hush'd his own Cares to make Loraski blest.
What Gift would my old faithful Soldier crave?
The mourning Hero, firmly cried,—a Grave.
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Nor scorn the Man, who fain would leave thee free,
Thou! on whose Wisdom rested all our Cares,
Beneath whose Statutes grew the peaceful Years,
Whose patient Arm put by the Shafts of Fate,
And held the Fabric of this trembling State!
But we must part!—farewell!—the King replied,
While down his Bosom the soft Tear would glide,
Loraski, grieve not in this trying Hour,
Thy feeble Limbs have sympathetic Pow'r!
While round me thus, thy faithful Arms are thrown,
I drink thy Sorrow, and forget my own;
True, my fair Kingdom like some fertile Field,
Rich in herself did self-rais'd Comforts yield,
Each Peasant free around his Ev'ning Fire,
Simply enjoy'd all Nature need require,
Whilst I, the Father of my Subjects lay,
On gorgeous Pillows, weeping Night away,
I heard the Chains forging by Russia, saw
Her hoary Statesmen wrest each human Law,
12
My long-lov'd Poles,—Injustice held the Beam:
Alarm'd, I stretch'd my Arm, surrounding Kings,
Who nicely touch Fraud's everlasting Springs,
Look'd on, nor deign'd to raise this heavy Chain
Thrown on my Neck, for ever to remain!
Ah! what avails one independent Mind,
While black Corruption aims her Shafts behind;
While Russia, like the Cimbrian Host of old,
O'er-runs the astonish'd World in search of Gold;
Roots up its Bosom for the fatal Ore,
And daunts e'en Pitt, on Albion's rocky Shore?
Lurking in Secret, veering to and fro',
She ey'd my Crown, yet fear'd to strike the Blow;
Till Prussia's Force with her dark Av'rice join'd,
When Fraud shook high her Serpents in the Wind.
How long cries Russia, Vet'rans, will ye see
One daring Rival 'twixt the World and me?
The Universe I'll own!—my Legions lead
O'er Poland's Hills, thro' ev'ry verdant Mead;
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Teach ev'ry Oak to nod at Russia's Pow'r.
Empire, Loraski, is the Tyrant's Boast,
But can the spacious Wilds I lately lost,
Sate that unhappy Soul by Av'rice curst?
Sooner the Sun-burnt Glebe shall cease to thirst,
Sooner Leviathan shall graze the Shore
Than Tyrants say, our Plunder now is o'er.
Loraski lov'd as much as he rever'd,
The Father of the Poles, and silent heard;
But the Recital of his Country's Woe
No Gleam of Warmth, could on his Spirit throw;
Chill'd were his Pow'rs in Fetters of Despair,
Too stubborn e'en to shed one soften'd Tear.
The Monarch saw his troubled Passions roll,
O'er the vast Region of his wasted Soul;
While inward Anguish spread her Gloom around,
And no Relief in Language could be found.
Look up, thou good old Man,—O try to live!
Thy King may yet have Ease and Wealth to give,
A King! (he paus'd) Loraski I'm a Slave—
Quick hurl me from Thee to a Russian Grave;
Pluck down my Trophies, Thou hast help'd to raise,
And mourn that Friend thy Lips were wont to praise:
Yet, know Loraski, should yon Slave of Pow'r
Confine this Frame within her seven-fold Tow'r:
When Poisons swell, or Wolves my Bosom tear,
Thy Image shall be found unshaken here.
Loraski now look'd up with Tears oppress'd,
His King's Affection shook his gen'rous Breast;
Yet did he stand devoted, in his Thought,
So high the Loss of Liberty had wrought;
Tis hard, my Sire, when Soldiers are grown old,
To bear new Yokes and be so often sold;
To love new Gods, to foolish Customs take,
Be whipp'd to-bed, commanded not to wake;
Tutor'd what Shoes to wear, and how to tye,
Chains round our Childrens' Necks—No Sire, I'll die!
Then take my last Embrace in yon deep Wood,
Where many an Age the Tomb of Rizbeck stood;
Do Thou, when Night her dismal Shade shall lend,
Inter unknown, thy Soldier and thy Friend.
Where dwells, we cry, the great omniscient Mind?
Could brave Loraski's Soul this Being find?
Yes, as an Atom sails along the Air,
Attracted tow'rds its own congenial Sphere;
Or unresisting (by Omniscience hurl'd)
Loraski helps to make that Thing—A WORLD.
Thy King may yet have Ease and Wealth to give,
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Quick hurl me from Thee to a Russian Grave;
Pluck down my Trophies, Thou hast help'd to raise,
And mourn that Friend thy Lips were wont to praise:
Yet, know Loraski, should yon Slave of Pow'r
Confine this Frame within her seven-fold Tow'r:
When Poisons swell, or Wolves my Bosom tear,
Thy Image shall be found unshaken here.
Loraski now look'd up with Tears oppress'd,
His King's Affection shook his gen'rous Breast;
Yet did he stand devoted, in his Thought,
So high the Loss of Liberty had wrought;
Tis hard, my Sire, when Soldiers are grown old,
To bear new Yokes and be so often sold;
To love new Gods, to foolish Customs take,
Be whipp'd to-bed, commanded not to wake;
Tutor'd what Shoes to wear, and how to tye,
Chains round our Childrens' Necks—No Sire, I'll die!
Then take my last Embrace in yon deep Wood,
Where many an Age the Tomb of Rizbeck stood;
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Inter unknown, thy Soldier and thy Friend.
Where dwells, we cry, the great omniscient Mind?
Could brave Loraski's Soul this Being find?
Yes, as an Atom sails along the Air,
Attracted tow'rds its own congenial Sphere;
Or unresisting (by Omniscience hurl'd)
Loraski helps to make that Thing—A WORLD.
THE END.
| An Elegy on Marie Antoinette | |