LINES ON THE LANDING OF HIS MAJESTY KING LOUIS PHILIPPE, TUESDAY, OCTOBER 8, 1844.
By B. Simmons.
I.
Ho! Wardens of the Coast look forth
Upon your Channel seas—
The night is melting in the north,
There's tumult on the breeze;
Now sinking far, now rolling out
In proud triumphal swell,
That mingled burst of shot and shout
Your fathers knew so well,
What time to England's inmost plain
The beacon-fires proclaim'd
That, like descending hurricane,
Grim Blake, that Mastiff of the Main,
Beside your shores had once again
The Flemish lion tamed![43]
War wakes not now that tumult loud,
Ye Wardens of the Coast,
Though looming large, through dawn's dim cloud,
Like an invading host
The Barks of France are bearing down,
One crowd of sails, while high
Above the misty morning's frown
Their streamers light the sky.
Up!—greet for once the Tricolor,
For once the lilied flag!
Forth with gay barge and gilded oar,
While fast the volley'd salvoes roar
From batteried line, and echoing shore,
And gun-engirdled crag!
Forth—greet with ardent hearts and eyes,
The Guest those galleys bring;
In Wisdom's walks the more than Wise—
'Mid Kings the more than King!
No nobler visitant e'er sought
The Mighty's white-cliff'd isle,
Where Alfred ruled, where Bacon thought,
Where Avon's waters smile:
Hail to the tempest-vexed Man!
Hail to the Sovereign-Sage!
A wearier pilgrimage who ran
Than the immortal Ithacan,
Since first his great career began,
Ulysses of our age!
A more than regal welcome give,
Ye thousands crowding round;
Shout for the once lorn Fugitive,
Whose soul no solace found
Save in that Self-reliance—match
For adverse worlds, alone—
Which cheer'd the Tutor's humble thatch,
Nor left him on the throne.
The Wanderer Muller's sails they furl—
The Wave-encounterer, who,
When Freedom leagued with Crime to hurl
Up earth's foundations, from the whirl
Where vortex'd Empires raged, the pearl
Of matchless Prudence drew.
V.