Classic Poem

When I reflect what varied ills await
The envied station of the scepter'd great;
When, in her awful records, History shews
The crown of empire, but the crown of woes!
I turn from fierce Ambition's fiery eye,
And wish in humbler life to live and die.

Could birth, could grandeur, or could boundless reign,
Exempt humanity from keenest pain;
Make life's gay vessel ev'ry tempest brave,
Stem envy's tide, and cleave misfortune's wave;
Who could with Bourbon's peerless Queen compare?
The Gallic lilies were not half so fair!
When youth and beauty, which were all her own,
Grac'd regal splendour, and adorn'd the throne:
What thousands watch'd that animated face,
Which smil'd preferment, and which frown'd disgrace!
Where e'er she went the willing heart she drew,
Her Husband's subjects were her captives too;
And yet their chains with conscious pride they wore,
With bondage pleas'd, and eager to adore.
What crouded theatres these eyes have seen,
With rapture gaze upon their darling Queen!
What multitudes have throng'd the streets she pass'd,
How proud he felt who saw her smiles the last!
Home he return'd to boast the casual glance
From Austrian Mary — then the pride of France!
Too soon these gay delusive dreams were o'er,
And fled the palace to return no more.
Alas! how awful was the change of scene! —
A captive Monarch, and a weeping Queen
Prov'd that adversity, all nature's lot!
Lowers on the palace, and o'erhangs the cot.
Unhappy Queen! thy fate is sure severe,
And might from savages extort a tear!
Where is the cringing courtier's homage now?
His honey'd accents, his betraying bow?
Where all the suitors of thy splendid hour,
Who sought thy favour, or who fear'd thy pow'r?
Fled — like the fancied land the sailor spies,
That cheers his hopes, but disappoints his eyes!
The first rude blast Misfortune's tempest blew,
Swept all the courtly insects from thy view.
Thy royal Husband found, in mis'ry's hour,
The friends of princes vanish with their pow'r.
Yet shall the Muse, with honest warmth, record
Some who prov'd faithful to their injur'd lord:
Urg'd on by rapine and malignant hate,
When rude Rebellion forc'd the palace gate,
The gallant few, who dar'd his cause defend,
Gloriously fought, and met a glorious end!
Oh! gen'rous band, to honour's annals dear!
For you the Helvetic youth shall shed the tear,
Your names shall grave on tablets of renown —
The last defenders of the Gallic crown!
Then shall the manly drops of woe be dried,
And mem'ry cry, " the Swiss' with honour died. "
While glory stimulates to noble deeds,
And cheers the falling soldier as he bleeds,
Your praises, gallant men! shall grace the page
Which tells the history of this tragic age;
Your native country, to your valour just,
Shall strew the greenest laurels on your dust!
Nor will she this small sprig of bays refuse —
The humble off'ring of a stranger's Muse.

From royal seats magnificently great!
From gen'ral homage, and the pomp of state!
Dragg'd to a prison — in its cells immur'd,
The rabble's scoffs the Royal Pair endur'd:
Each paltry ruffian, arm'd with lawless pow'r,
The petty despot of the guilty hour!
Pick'd from the very dregs of human kind,
Shew'd the low malice of a vulgar mind;
On fallen majesty with insult prest,
And vented all the venom of his breast.
What hand can paint the horrors which ensued —
A nation with a Martyr's blood imbrued!
When I behold all Paris stain'd with gore,
I almost hate that freedom I adore;
The horrid massacres my nerves unstring,
And outrag'd Nature mourns a murder'd King!
Oh! France disgrac'd! for ever lost to fame,
Eternal Infamy has damn'd thy name!
Thy bloody annals shall record this deed,
And countless thousands for thy crimes shall bleed.
On that dread day when hearts shall all be known,
And Atheists tremble at the eternal throne!
When guiltless blood is charg'd to Gallia's race,
Where will the palid murderer hide his face?
Where will a monarch's cruel butchers fly,
From the keen searching of the Almighty's eye!
Behold each fiend, with more than mortal dread!
Wishing for mountains to conceal his head;
Or, to be plung'd, his load of crimes to hide,
Ten thousand fathoms under Ocean's tide!
Abash'd with shame the bloody wretches stand,
The guilty culprits of a guilty land!
No hope is theirs — who Heaven's just wrath defied,
Their monarch murder'd, and their God denied!
Are these the flow'rs philosophy bestows,
To strew the rugged path of human woes?
Are these the means her votaries pursue,
To prove the theory of her systems true?
These the new schemes which Gallic sages plan
To meliorate the general state of man?
Detested hypocrites! your projects cease,
Nor cheat the world of happiness and peace:
Man has, alas! his share of natural woes,
Without the deadly poison you compose;
Leave him the comfort by religion giv'n,
His faith in God, his stedfast hope of Heav'n!
That hope he murmurs with his parting breath,
That hope allays his agonies in death.

Why could not France restore her mould'ring state,
By means as noble as the end was great?
Why were the ministers of hell employ'd,
And what might well be mended, quite destroy'd?
The plant of liberty had surely thriv'n,
Unbath'd with blood, fann'd by the breath of Heav'n!
That genial plant in ev'ry soil may grow,
But where the stem is strong, the growth is slow:
Matur'd by time, its branches nobly spread,
And whirlwinds rage in vain around its head!
Thus the firm oak, Britannia's forests boast,
Defies the storm that thunders round the coast;
Spreads its bold branches to defend the shoot,
Which slowly rises at its awful root.

Vain are, much-injur'd Queen! these artless lays,
Which to thy wrongs, indignant manhood pays!
What comfort can the sorrowing Muse afford,
The widow'd mourner of her murder'd lord?
Her plaintive numbers, and her tearful eye,
In vain bestow the tributary sigh!
The bitterness of death is almost o'er,
And Hell and Orleans , can torment no more.
Affliction's quiver scarcely has a dart,
To agonize again thy bleeding heart;
Yet if thy bosom can admit relief,
How grateful must appear a nation's grief?
Britain, whose isle with real freedom blest!
Affords a refuge to each foe distrest,
With manly sorrow mourns thy Bourbon's doom,
And hates the wretch who triumphs o'er his tomb.