 | Reflections on the death of Louis XVI |  |
------ Is it good
For Man to drain the sacred Stream of Life
From his sad Brother's Heart? O tis a Deed
Unworthy an immortal Spirit! where
Shall meek neglected Mercy find a Spot
To weep in Silence o'er her slaughter'd Sons!
For Man to drain the sacred Stream of Life
From his sad Brother's Heart? O tis a Deed
Unworthy an immortal Spirit! where
Shall meek neglected Mercy find a Spot
To weep in Silence o'er her slaughter'd Sons!
Reflections on the Death of Louis XVI.
A pause of Sorrow hangs upon the World,
While heav'nly Pity, sighs thro' all the Air,
Too late she mourns! Fury her Torch hath hurl'd,
Man, sickens with her Heat, his wildest Passions glare!
While heav'nly Pity, sighs thro' all the Air,
Too late she mourns! Fury her Torch hath hurl'd,
Man, sickens with her Heat, his wildest Passions glare!
4
Yet, gentle Pity, stay! tho' thy soft Charms,
Are dim'd awhile, thy Lustre shall return;
Murder shall tremble mid the Din of Arms,
And o'er his Victim the fierce Soldier mourn.
Are dim'd awhile, thy Lustre shall return;
Murder shall tremble mid the Din of Arms,
And o'er his Victim the fierce Soldier mourn.
Melted by Thee, thro' many a lonely Hour,
E'en Stoic Pride shall weep a murder'd King:
Such Tears are sacred to thy soft'ning Pow'r,
Then bathe in honest Grief thy rosy Wing;
E'en Stoic Pride shall weep a murder'd King:
Such Tears are sacred to thy soft'ning Pow'r,
Then bathe in honest Grief thy rosy Wing;
And shake the healing Drops on ev'ry Shore,
Where mad Bellona, stings the troubled Mind;
Where feeble Mortals blindly would adore
That airy Vision, Wisdom ne'er could find.
Where mad Bellona, stings the troubled Mind;
Where feeble Mortals blindly would adore
That airy Vision, Wisdom ne'er could find.
5
Where fancied Liberty, with rude Excess,
Courts Man from sober Joy, and lures him on
To frantic War, struck by her gaudy Dress,
His ardent Soul is in the Chace undone.
Courts Man from sober Joy, and lures him on
To frantic War, struck by her gaudy Dress,
His ardent Soul is in the Chace undone.
The Ignis fatuus follow'd by the Clown,
Deceives not more than Liberty, her Arms
Were never round the weary Warriour thrown,
He dies a Victim to fallacious Charms.
Deceives not more than Liberty, her Arms
Were never round the weary Warriour thrown,
He dies a Victim to fallacious Charms.
Ask, ye! where joyous Liberty resorts,
In France, in Spain, or in Britannia's Vale?
O no!—She only with poor Fancy sports
Her richest Dwelling is the passing Gale.
In France, in Spain, or in Britannia's Vale?
O no!—She only with poor Fancy sports
Her richest Dwelling is the passing Gale.
6
Like Echo, she exists in airy Sound,
Never possess'd, ne'er to one Rule confin'd,
Fix but one Hair to mark her fairy Ground,
She vanishes! nor leaves a Trace behind.
Never possess'd, ne'er to one Rule confin'd,
Fix but one Hair to mark her fairy Ground,
She vanishes! nor leaves a Trace behind.
Yet for this Vapour, gen'rous Man must die,
For this, he ventures on a World unknown;
For this, he braves the Crime of sanguine Dye;
For this, he drags a Monarch from his Throne.
For this, he ventures on a World unknown;
For this, he braves the Crime of sanguine Dye;
For this, he drags a Monarch from his Throne.
Ill-fated LOUIS!—all thy Pangs are o'er!
Nature's keen Agony hath left thy Heart;
Thy Childrens' Groans by thee are heard no more,
To hold thee back, when Murder cries “depart!”
Nature's keen Agony hath left thy Heart;
Thy Childrens' Groans by thee are heard no more,
To hold thee back, when Murder cries “depart!”
7
O deep! deep Struggle!—surely thou wert made
To break the strongest Ligament of Woe;
To feel ere Death could thy full Veins invade,
The finest Torture Human-kind can know.
To break the strongest Ligament of Woe;
To feel ere Death could thy full Veins invade,
The finest Torture Human-kind can know.
Yes, Millions fall, but few so high are wrought
By Nature's working in the awful Hour,
Few Taste the Cup with Pain so deeply fraught:
Ah Louis! thou hast prov'd the Soul's sublimest Pow'r!
By Nature's working in the awful Hour,
Few Taste the Cup with Pain so deeply fraught:
Ah Louis! thou hast prov'd the Soul's sublimest Pow'r!
Thy Murd'rers live,—what friendly Arm shall ease
The Pillow which supports a guilty Head?
When Conscience nourishes the Mind's Disease,
And Mem'ry brings the Shadow of the Dead?
The Pillow which supports a guilty Head?
When Conscience nourishes the Mind's Disease,
And Mem'ry brings the Shadow of the Dead?
8
In that dread Hour, much injur'd Spirit rise!
And breathe Forgiveness thro' thy Murd'rer's Soul:
Ah! bid him save thy Children ere he dies,
Then guide him to thy GOD, where Worlds eternal roll.
And breathe Forgiveness thro' thy Murd'rer's Soul:
Ah! bid him save thy Children ere he dies,
Then guide him to thy GOD, where Worlds eternal roll.
| Reflections on the death of Louis XVI | |