’Twas for you that your ancestors traced round the earth
The circle of conquest, triumphant and glorious,
Which, extending to Cairo, from France took its birth,
And proceeded through slaughter, but ever victorious:—
’Twas for you they encountered the Muscovite snows,
Or in Italy plucked for their trophies the rose!
O offspring of heroes and children of Fame!
Applaud the achievements your sires did before you!
Extend their renown, while ye honour their name,
And fight for the banners that proudly wave o’er you.
Remember, Napoleon has oft cast his eye
Through the long serried ranks of the French chivalry!
Thou, Herald of Jupiter—Eagle of France!
’Tis thou that hast carried our thunders afar:
With thee for a sign did our armies advance—
With thee as their symbol, they went to the war!
Look around thee—rejoice! for the sons of thy land
Are worthy the sires that thou erst didst command!
And France has awakened from stupor profound,
And the watch-word has raised all her champions around;
And the din of their weapons struck loud on the ear,
As it hearkened the tread of the cavalry near.
But the tyrant has marshalled his warriors in vain,
And his culverins thundered again and again;—
For the stones that the citizens tore from the street,
Laid the cohorts of Royalty dead at their feet!
And their numbers increased—for they fought to be free,
And they poured on the foe like the waves of the sea,
While the din of the tocsin that echoed on high,
Was drowned in the fervour of Liberty’s cry!
The tyrant has left you with sorrow and anguish,
Fair city—the glory of France and the world:
Three days have elapsed since in chains you did languish—
You have fought—you have won—and your banners are furled!
And wise were your counsels succeeding the strife—
For Revenge even smiled with the rest,
When Clemency bade her surrender the knife
Ere ’twas plunged in the enemy’s breast!
The friends of the monarch with him are o’erthrown—
’Tis thus that a people its rights will defend;
For if Fate have determined the fall of a crown,
The schemes of the council accomplish the end.
The wretches! they deemed, in their insolent pride,
That France to their sceptre would bow;
But the Lord found them light when their balance was tried,
And reduced them to what they are now!
And, oh! let the lesson for ever remain—
When we raise up a King, we are forging a chain.
When we humble our necks to a monarch, we make
A bond that we leave for our children to break;
Since the breath of a King is the spark to the pan—
The musket explodes, and its victim is—man!
Now let the funeral dirge be said,
And let the priests lament the dead:
But let them come with modest vest—
No more in tinsel splendour drest;—
No more with ostentatious air
Need they commence a lofty prayer:
No sign of worldly pomp should be
Mingled with aught of sanctity;—
Less welcome to the Lord on high
Is grandeur than sincerity!
Henceforth to the priest be all splendour unknown—
Let his cross be of wood, and his cushion of stone:
The church is his refuge—the church is his rest—
In her arms he is safe—in her care he is blest!
For when the volcanic eruption is red,
Like the froth of the wine-press that Burgundy fed;
When the sides of Vesuvius are glowing and bright,
When Naples re-echoes with cries of affright—
’Tis then that the groans of the children resound,
And mothers despairingly fall to the ground—
’Tis then that in vain they expend to the air
The half-uttered words which are meant for a prayer;
While black lines of mist from the crater ascend,
And seem to foretell that the world’s at an end!
Those lines have divided—a lustre, that broke
From the bowels of the mount, superseded the smoke:
Then Naples, adieu to the grots in thy vales—
Adieu to thy ships—the flame spreads to their sails;
The lava has fall’n on the sides of the hill,
As the locks of a maiden float wildly at will!
And farther—oh! farther the lava rolls on—
O’er meadows—o’er streams—to the gulf it has gone:
The smoke forms a canopy sombre and dread,
Though the waves of the torrent be glowing and red.
And the homes of the great and the paladin’s hall
Were doomed in that deluge to totter and fall.
’Twas a chaos of ruin! The cinders were strewed
O’er a town late so lovely—now shapeless and rude:
From dwelling to dwelling proceeded th’ assail—
The houses ware burning in city and vale:
The earth was unsteady—the waves of the sea
Boiled white on the shore—and the tocsin rang free,
Though no human hand were the cause of the sound—
’Twas raised by the steeples that tottered around!—
’Twas a chaos immense! But the arm of the Lord,
That scattered such ruin and havoc abroad—
The arm of the Deity, powerful to kill,
And pour out the wrath of his thunder at will—
That arm, on the brink of the crater, can spare
The hermit who kneels to his Maker in prayer!
By the time Laura had completed the perusal of these poems, Rosalie reappeared: and the arch smile which the pretty lady’s-maid wore, seemed to indicate that success had crowned the task that had been entrusted to her.
“What tidings have you for me?” asked Laura.