Classic Poem

XXIII.

 Perish the vision!—no,—on France's eye
 Still let it hang,—as o'er a murderer's
 His victim's shade,—in noon, in midnight nigh,
 'Till she has laid it in repentant tears;
 'Till man has seen what fruit rebellion bears;
 The noblest sure to perish by the low,
 Stripp'd by their rapine, slaughter'd by their fears;
 Guilt's tender mercies, that uplift the blow,
While from its pallid lips “faith, honor, country” flow.

XXIV.

 But musing's done.—The rabble round me press,
 With every cry of earth since Babel's fall.
 The world's in gala,—Poissarde loveliness
 Glides, faint and feather'd from her last night's ball,
 Dispensing glances on the friseur small,
 The tiptoe thing beside her,—all bouquet;
 His bowing head, a curly carnival;
 His shoulders to his earrings, grimly gay;—
All have put on their smiles; 'tis the King's holiday.

XXV.

 A cannon roars,—a rocket cleaves the air
 In rushing beauty, waving up its way,
 Like a red snake. With backward step and stare
 The crowd pursue its burst,—'tis lost in day.
 White banners on the palace turrets play;
 And soon, like sheets of newly waken'd flame,
 They rise from many a roof and steeple gray,
 Thick meteors, ray'd with cross and patron name;
While in rich thunders roll the peals of Notre Dâme.

XXVI.

 Below, the streets are changing; tissues trim
 From door to door, from house to house are swung;
 Deep with devices, shatter'd oft and dim,
 For fortune's turns in loyal darkness flung.
 The wheel has turn'd; the world again is young.
 The mob, the troops that down the distance stand
 Lingering and loose, are with the lily strung;
 The poissarde beauties whirling hand in hand,
Fling up the exiled flower with shouts;—such is the land!

XXVII.

 A distant trumpet sounds; the river shore
 Sends it in echoes on; the soldiers haste
 To loose their piles of muskets;—standards soar,
 Drums rattle,—voices clamour,—bugles blast;
 The mob confused from side to side are cast;
 Horsemen dash by with spur and slacken'd rein.
 Moment of tumult! quickly come and past.
 To bridge and wall the crowd like billows drain,
And all their myriad eyes are fix'd along the Seine.

XXVIII.

 The flourish swells again. The Louvre arch
 Pours out an instant flood of sight and sound.
 Dense as a wall the steel'd cuirassiers march,
 With clash, and clang, and chargers' mettled bound,
 And leaders' cries, as squadron'd, wheeling round
 Successive from the porte, they meet the glare,
 Blazed back from helm and mail. Yet all are drown'd
 In the proud, sudden shout that rends the air,
As on his barb reins out the royal mousquetaire.

XXIX.

 They come, as brilliant and as gay a train,
 As in the brightest noon of chivalry
 Poised the light lance, or wound the broidered rein,
 To win the glance of royal beauty's eye.
 And every emblem rich and lovely dye,
 And blazonry of gold and costly stone,
 Flashes, from knightly spur to helmet high,
 Around the youthful champions of the throne,
They had their hour of woe, their triumph is well won.

XXX.

 It was a dreary time; that deep midnight,
 Which saw those warriors to their chargers spring,
 And, sadly gathering by the torch's light,
 Draw up their squadrons round their ruin'd king:
 Then, through the streets, long, silent, slumbering,
 Move like some secret noble funeral:
 Each forced in turn to feel his bosom wring,
 As in the gleam shone out his own proud hall,
His own no more;——no more!—he had abandon'd all!