 | Ode to the Duchess of Angouleme |  |
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But now the blood of twenty thousand men
Did triumph in my face, and they are fled.—
Oh villains, vipers, damned without redemption!
Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man!—
Terrible Hell make war,
Upon their spotted souls for this offence.—
For well we know, no hand of blood and bone
Can grasp the sacred handle of our sceptre,
Unless he do profane, steal, or usurp.—
Revolt our subjects? that we cannot mend,
They break their faith to God, as well as us.
RICHARD THE SECOND.
Did triumph in my face, and they are fled.—
Oh villains, vipers, damned without redemption!
Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man!—
Terrible Hell make war,
Upon their spotted souls for this offence.—
For well we know, no hand of blood and bone
Can grasp the sacred handle of our sceptre,
Unless he do profane, steal, or usurp.—
Revolt our subjects? that we cannot mend,
They break their faith to God, as well as us.
RICHARD THE SECOND.
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ODE TO THE Duchess of Angouleme.
I
Faint Wanderer of an exiled race,Sad Orphan of a martyred Sire!
Come to thy first, last resting place,
From worldly pomp and woe retire.
Come in thy tearless agony,
With marble cheek and frozen eye;
Oh come, all hopeless as thou art,
And lay thee down in peace, and still thy bursting heart.
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II
Victim of too severe a fate,Wert thou too lightly tried before,
Snatched from the ruins of a State,
And sprinkled with paternal gore?
Were all thy trials deemed too few,
That still thy wounds must bleed anew—
Still must it be thy mournful doom,
To pine o'er sorrows past, and brood o'er woes to come?
III
Oh! nursed in pomp, and born to power,To wisdom's influence, beauty's spell!
What lot was thine—the Orphan's dower—
Where was thy home—the Felon's cell!
Thy woes at length by time beguiled,
Once more deceitful fortune smiled;
And woke thee with so grand a strain,
The rush of sudden joy was almost felt like pain.
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IV
Then was thy hour of triumphing;If aught of mortal frailty
Around that chastened heart could cling,
Or stain thine angel purity.
But thine was joy so softened down
By sorrow's unforgotten frown,
That still through smiles the tear-drop stole,
As new born Hope and Memory blended in thy soul.
V
Sad was thy pensive countenance,In silent prayer upraised to Heaven;
In prayer for thy repentant France,
Guilty so late, so soon forgiven.
Such wert thou, when th' acclaiming throng,
Bore thee triumphantly along:
So calm, so holy seemed thy joy,
Even hearts unused to melt were touched to sympathy.
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VI
But oh, how deep emotion swept,When first that solemn mass was sung,
When kneeling thousands bowed and wept,
And joined in prayer thy trembling tongue.
For then, as paused the organ's roll,
Thy moan came sadly on the soul;
Thy shrouded form, pale, bent in prayer,
Appeared as if long-lost Religion's self was there!
VII
Lo! where with pomp and pageantry,Yon dark funereal train of woe
March in their mute solemnity,
To wailing dirges, soft and slow!
Once more thy tortured moan is heard,
Responsive to each sacred word,
Blent with the organ's plaintive tones
Pouring sad requiem o'er the consecrated bones.
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VIII
Aye! thousands wept, and thousands blest,And thousands round thy footsteps hung;
As new-born reverence swelled the breast,
As pity probed, repentance stung.
Yet these the men—oh mortal stain!
When shall we trust Mankind again?
The self-same breath that fanned thy way,
Welcomes th' usurper back, and ratifies his sway!
IX
Yes, all Mankind shall feel the shock,That rends time-hallowed sympathies,
And learn from guilty France to mock
All human laws, all human ties.
Mercy shall lift her wings, and hence
So many writers have exposed the conduct of the French nation on a recent occasion, that the Author has here no need of exhausting his powers of abuse. Indeed the subject has become trite, and the public ear is already sufficiently sated. It may be observed, however, in reference to the above lines, that such shameless abuse of the most solemn obligations, and such habitual facility in changing the objects of national allegiance, has a very obvious tendency to convert Kings into Tyrants. Power once exercised, cannot be relinquished without regret and without alarm; whoever feels that power insecure, will add suspicion to alarm, and cruelty to suspicion.
Aye, aye, thou wouldst be gone to join with Richmond.
I will not trust you, Sir. * * * * * Well,
Go muster men—but hear you—leave behind
Your son, George Stanley; look your heart be firm,
Or else his head's assurance is but frail.
Richard III.
I will not trust you, Sir. * * * * * Well,
Go muster men—but hear you—leave behind
Your son, George Stanley; look your heart be firm,
Or else his head's assurance is but frail.
Richard III.
Depart with frank-eyed confidence;
And Fear shall call on Murder's arm,
To strike resistance down, and quell each vain alarm.
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X
Frenchmen! we curse your very name,Unblushing in your worthlessness,
Stampt with each varied brand of shame,
By word of utter faithlessness.
At once so cringing and so proud,
Base in distress, in triumph loud,
So fierce, yet abject—mean, though vain;
Ne'er may degraded Man bend to such yoke again!
XI
To-day Napoleon forced to fly,With taunt and threat, and curse and scorn;
God save King Louis!—is the cry,
Home on triumphant shoulders borne.
To Peace ye pour the suppliant vow,
To meek Religion's shrine ye bow,
Abjure stern Conquest's red career,
And bend to Science voice with no unwilling ear.
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XII
Yet now, poor hirelings of a day!Weak changelings of a shallow hour!
Ye spurn a Monarch's righteous sway,
Invoke a Despot back to power,
The sacred bonds of Peace disclaim,
And scoff Religion's holy name,
And kneeling at Bellona's car,
Bid weeping Science seek some happier shore afar.
XIII
Awake, awake! we do but dream!We dream of troubles past from Earth—
Awake! 'tis Fancy's feverish gleam,
Shadowing terrific visions forth:
The bloody Spectre of the past
Hath risen o'er our rest at last;
Sweeps in unreal terrors by,
With terror-stricken mien, and woe-denouncing cry!
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XIV
Awake? alas, this is no sleep—No dream—we feel—we hear—we see—
In vain o'er wasted hours we weep,
And trembling scan Futurity!
We thought, oh fools! his light was quenched,
His fires decayed, his lustre blenched:
Nor dreamt a Sun so darkly set,
Might o'er the World arise in storm and terror yet.
XV
Lo! Discord claps her raven wings,And lurking Havock inly smiles;
The sultry Siroc blows, and brings
The Dæmon of ten thousand ills:
“The Dæmon of ten thousand ills.” Stanza XV. line 4. The character of Buonaparte realizes the description of Argante, in the Gerusalemme Liberata. Canto 2. Stanza 59.—
Impaziente, inesorabil, fero,
Nel arme infaticabile, ed invitto,
D'ogni Dio sprezzator, e che ripone
Nella spada sua legge, e sua ragione.
Bold was his heart, and restless was his spright,
Fierce, stern, outrageous, keen as sharpened brand,
Scorner of God, scant to himself a friend,
And pricked his reason on his weapon's end.
Fairfax.
Nel arme infaticabile, ed invitto,
D'ogni Dio sprezzator, e che ripone
Nella spada sua legge, e sua ragione.
Bold was his heart, and restless was his spright,
Fierce, stern, outrageous, keen as sharpened brand,
Scorner of God, scant to himself a friend,
And pricked his reason on his weapon's end.
Fairfax.
For now, the Spoiler of the Earth
Comes, like the Eastern Idol, forth;
Around his mad'ning victims reel,
And cast their limbs benèath his pitiless chariot-wheel.
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XVI
Or haply, like th' Arch-fiend, when firstThe confines of the World he trod;
Fierce from his bonds so lately burst,
Scathed by the Thunderbolts of God;
When every Angel-guard, at last
With guileful tongue and swift wing past,
He bent malignant o'er his prey,
With flattering smiles to curse, and tempting to betray.
XVII
And yet, by Heaven, 'twas nobly bold,(Howe'er the day be lost or won)
Thus like the Roman chief of old,
To dare another Rubicon.
Yet was not then, that Roman heart
So fiercely tried as now Thou art:
One final strife was his to fight,
But Thou must turn to stem the World's united might.
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XVIII
Foul Rebel! did no tongue defy,No arm thy desperate march oppose?
And Louis, wert thou doomed to fly,
The following lines, extracted from a scarce book, applying so closely to this unfortunate Monarch, and possessing so much intrinsic merit, will, it is hoped, be read with interest.
“Behold my hap, see how the seely rout;On mee doe gaze, and ech to other say,
See where hee lyeth, but late that was so stout,
Loe how the power, the pride and rich array
Of mighty Rulers lightly fade away.
The King which erst kept all the realm in doute
The veriest rascal now dare checke and floute!”
The Mirour for Magistrates—“Richard II.” London 1587. “If noble byrth, or high authority,
Nombre of friendes, kindred or alliaunce,
If wisdome, learning, or worldly pollicy,
Mought have beene stayers to fortune's variaunce,
None stoode more strong in worldly countenaunce;
For all these helpes had I to avayle mee,
And yet in fine, all the same did fayle mee!”
The Mirour for Magistrates—“Humfrey Plantaganet.” “They frown'd on mee, that fawn'd on mee before,
And fled from mee, that followde mee full fast:
They hated mee, by whome I set much store,
They knew full well my fortune did not last.
In every place I was condemned and cast!”
The same—Churchyard's “Shore's Wife.”
The whole of the latter poem is full of beautiful and pathetic passages—and “Sackville's Induction” may be recommended as equally distinguished for its beauty of imagery, and correctness of versification. In the latter particular, it is in itself sufficient proof how erroneous that opinion is, which ascribes the mechanical improvement of our poetry to a recent date.
'Mid coward friends and pitying foes?
Oh! better to have braved the strife,
The Tyrant's frown, th' assassin's knife,
Mournfully in royal state enthroned,
Thy lost, devoted Race, and faithful Peers around.
XIX
So erst, still in misfortune great,Sternly composed, calm in despair,
So erst Rome's awful Senate sat,
Nor raised an arm, nor breathed a prayer;
Dauntless they sat, though wild at hand
Barbarians stormed, with fire and brand;
Immoveable, to Fate resigned,
Rome was triumphant still in her unconquered mind.
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XX
Yet why from modern Man expectThe vigour of an earlier day?
Dimly at best do we reflect
The worth of Ages past away.
The virtues of the days gone by
Shine like the blessed Stars on high,
Pouring through Time's long, troubled night,
A guiding ray serene, inimitably bright!
XXI
We're fallen upon portenteous times,A stormy yet degenerate age;
Our world a Theatre of crimes,
A tragic scene, a bloody stage.
In after-days we little guess
How poorly in our nakedness,
How base of heart, how mean of mind,
Our deeds shall stand amid the annals of mankind.
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XXII
And after-ages, when thy doomIs but a tale of History,
Shall mourn around thine exiled tomb,
Sad Daughter of Adversity!
Aye, they shall weep, when tears are vain,
Their tears shall deepen every stain,
When thou art gone beyond the sky,
Throned in immortal Peace, with Him that dwells on high!
| Ode to the Duchess of Angouleme | |