University of Virginia Library

I.

I am not death, O King! nor by him sent
O'er thy sad heart my pinions black to wave;
But, when men die, I stand, in silence bent,
Writing the deeds of warrior, saint, or slave,
And canonize the timid and the brave.
They die, but after them their actions live,
For good or ill. Speak, then, if thou wouldst be,
Though bad, not worst; and mercy may forgive
The cureless past. What shall I write of thee?
Shall toil be plunder'd still—or trade be free?
Know'st thou the law by which Kings govern well,
The golden law—“Reign not for some but all?”
Shall I to men, and to the immortals tell
That thou didst fetter hope, or disenthrall?
O answer, ere the fatal curtain fall!
To-morrow, and the Sultan is forgot
Even in the harem; but on realms oppress'd
The scar remains, where pass'd the iron hot
With which he sear'd them; and wrongs unredress'd
Cry to the hopeless dead—“Ye shall not rest!”
Would'st thou be mourn'd with curses or with tears?
As angels mourn the blow that casts aside
The axle of a world, for years and years
Turning the seasons back, and all their pride?
Or as men mourn a godlike friend who died?
Thou hast, men say, for misery's tear a sigh;
But if thy heart is warm, 'tis warm in vain.
King of the Bread-Tax! dearly did'st thou buy
That title. Shall it evermore remain
To mock thy virtues, an eternal stain?

II.

No answer?—Oft the meanest of mankind,
Gay as “The Tenth,” and polish'd as their swords,
Have rivall'd Nash in etiquette of mind,
And all the littleness of forms and words;
But thou art King of Squires, and reign'st for Lords!
To teach thy sire, earth wept a sea of gore;
He lived unteachable, and died untaught
By curses wrung from millions. It is o'er,
And thou wast heir of all his madness wrought;
Be this thy plea—all else availeth nought.
But nations beggar'd, that ye might bequeath
Old bonds to France redeem'd! and Peterloo
Immortal! and Napoleon's deathless death!
These were such deeds as vulgar kings can do;
They made thee famous, but not matchless too.
King of Dear Corn! Time hears, with ceaseless groan,
Time ever hears, sad names of hate and dread:
But thou, thou only, of all monarchs known,
Didst legislate against thy People's bread!
King of the Corn-Laws! thus wilt thou be read!
For ever thus. A monarch calls thee—Go:
And if there be, in other worlds, a throne
That waits a prince unequall'd, be not slow
To seize the vacant seat—it is thine own;
King of Dear Corn! thou art “thyself alone!”
Safe is thy fame. 'Tis come, th' unerring hour
That calls even kings to their account away;
And o'er thee frowns a shadow and a power
To quench the stars, and turn the living day
Black. Yoked below, pant Horror and Dismay;
The steeds, O King! with soundless speed, that drag
Thee, and a king more dreaded than his Lord,
The King of Kings—O Death! behold his flag—
The wormy shroud! his sceptre, crown, and sword—
Worms! his dread slaves—worms, worms that do his word!
But where are thine! thy slaves! thy flatterers?—Gone.
Nor need'st thou sigh for parasite or sage;
For, lo! the mightiest of all kings, but one,
(Lord of the dust that once was youth and age,)
Attends thee fallen! Behold his equipage!
How strange a chariot serves both him and thee!
But Death rides royally—no stop, no stay;
On, on! far hence thy final home must be.
What cloud swings there? A world that turns from day
Her mountains. Death drives well—Away! Away!
As when to ships, which mists at sea surround,
The dangerous fog assumes a golden hue,
While rocks draw near with sudden breakers bound,
And distant mountains, reeling into view,
Lift o'er the clouds their cliffs of airy blue;
So, to thy soul, released from mortal ties,
Scenes grand, and wild, and terrible, and new,
Strange lands, strange seas, the stars of unknown skies—
The realms of death with all their hosts arise.
King of Dear Corn! the dead have heard that name;
They come—imperial spectres throng to meet
Him, who, at once, eclipsed their dismal fame.
But why should despots long to kiss thy feet?
Did Nero starve his People? No—O shame!
He only hymn'd the flames that, street by street,
Swept Rome, no longer Roman;—it is meet
That greatness bow to greatest. Famine's lord!
What pallid crowds plebeian round thee rise!
Sent to sad graves by human fiends abhorr'd,
They come to thank thee with their tears and sighs:—
Nay, shrink not from the crowd of hollow eyes!
Thou know'st their children live to toil and pine,
And that eternity's long roll supplies
No nickname, deathless, grand, and just as thine.
But who is she, of aspect masculine,
Amid the silent moving silently,
With saddest step but not unroyal air,
And gazing like an injured friend on thee?
There is sublimity in her despair!
O King! that pitying look is hard to bear!
Thee she forgives, but not the havoc made
By thy meek servants and most gracious foes,
Who sagely interdict, hope, profit, trade.
And must thy name be link'd for aye with those—
“The triple hundred kinglings”—who oppose
All change but evil change; and, deaf and blind,
Refute the sun and ocean as he flows?
While daily, hourly, in their war on mind,
They scourge again the Saviour of mankind.
O why didst thou obey them from thy throne?
Thou might'st have been, alas! thou would'st not be
King of the People! (would that thou had'st known
How almost godlike 'tis to rule the free!)—
Or lived a tyrant! not the nominee
Of tyrants, wallowing in their victims' woe,
And arm'd to curse mankind, with worse than stings.
Compared with thine, their deeds are night on snow:—
The breath of dungeons on a seraph's wings!
Derision! who would reign where such are kings?
But to be slave—if thou wert willing slave—
Of mean barbarians; to be signing clerk
Of palaced almoner, and tax-fed knave;
To wear their livery, and their badge and mark;
To love the light, and yet to choose the dark;—
This, this was vile, and did to millions wrong
Not to be borne by men who boast a spark
Of manly worth. O Tamer of the strong!
Wake thy slow angel, God! He slumbers long—
His voice of reformation should be heard,
His hand be active, not to overturn,
But to restore; ere, sick with hope deferr'd,
The good despond; ere lord and peasant mourn,
Homeless alike; ere Waste and Havoc spurn,
With hand and foot, the dust of Power and Pride;
While tower and temple at their bidding burn,
And the land reels, and rocks from side to side,
A sailless wreck, with none to save or guide;
A sailless wreck, with multitudes to do
Deeds more accursed than pirate's deck e'er saw;
A helmless wreck, a famine-frantic crew,
All rage and hunger, hand, and voice, and maw;
And on that rolling wreck, no food, no hope, no law!