11/11/2007

Voltaire

The Henriade

Henri IV, King of France and Navarre.

Table of Contents

Publication Information:

INTRODUCTION.

CANTO I.

CANTO II.

CANTO III.

CANTO IV.

CANTO V.

CANTO VI.

CANTO VII.

CANTO VIII.

CANTO IX.

CANTO X.

Notes

Publication Information:

Extracted from Voltaire, The Works of Voltaire: A Contemporary Version.

Volume: 38.

Translated by William F. Fleming.

Publisher: E. R. DuMont. Place of Publication: Paris.

Publication Year: 1901

François-Marie Arouet de Voltaire:

The Henriade.

INTRODUCTION.

“The Henriade,” the only French epic, was begun when the author was a prisoner in the Bastille. The second Canto, describing the Massacre of St. Bartholomew’s Day, came to Voltaire in a dream, so he told his friend Wagnière, adding that he retained the lines until he had the chance to write them and “he never found anything to change in it.” The poem was ten years in the making. It was ready for printing in 1723, when he was in his thirtieth year. He had received a number of subscriptions for it before he realized that the tone of the Dedication and the poem would bring it under the ban of the censors. The Dedication is unique of its kind. The young king, Louis XV., had just attained his majority.

“SIRE: Every work in which the great deeds of Henry IV. are spoken of, ought to be offered to your majesty. It is the blood of that hero which flows in your veins. You are king only because he was a great man, and France, that wishes you as much virtue as he possessed, and more happiness, flatters itself that the life and the throne which you owe to him will engage you to imitate him.

“Fortunate in having known adversity, he felt for the miseries of men, and softened the rigors of a rule from which he had suffered himself. Other kings have courtiers; he had friends. His heart was full of tenderness for his true servants.

“That king, who truly loved his subjects, never regarded their complaints as sedition, nor the remonstrance of magistrates as encroachment upon the sovereign authority. Shall I say it, sire? Yes; truth commands me so to do. It is a thing very shameful to kings, this astonishment we experience when they sincerely love the happiness of their people. May you one day accustom us to regard that virtue as something appertaining to your crown! It was the true love of Henry IV. for France which made him adored by his subjects.”

The poem was a brilliant protest against intolerance by the powers of Church and State. How, then, could itself be tolerated? The “privilege” of publication was denied. By the help of friends it was secretly printed in Rouen in 1724. It was smuggled into Paris and had an instant success, as “a wonderful work, a masterpiece of the mind, as beautiful as Virgil.” It has had a lasting popularity in seven languages. The English edition appeared in 1728 as “the first edition published with the author’s sanction.” This time the author dedicated “The Henriade” to Queen Caroline, whose husband had been one year king of Eng land. She had been the friend of Sir Isaac Newton when Princess of Wales.

To the Queen:

“MADAM: It was the lot of Henry the Fourth to be protected by an English queen. He was assisted by the great Elizabeth, who was in her age the glory of her sex. By whom can his memory be so well protected as by her who resembles so much Elizabeth in her personal virtues? “Your majesty will find in this book bold, impartial truths; morality unstained with superstition; a spirit of liberty, equally abhorrent of rebellion and of tyranny; the rights of kings always asserted and those of mankind never laid aside.

“The same spirit in which it was written gave me the confidence to offer it to the virtuous consort of a king who, among so many crowned heads, enjoys the almost inestimable honour of ruling a free nation: a king who makes his power consist in being beloved, and his glory in being just. “Our Descartes, who was the greatest philosopher in Europe before Sir Isaac Newton appeared, dedicated his “Principles” to the celebrated Princess Palatine Elizabeth; not, said he, because she was a princess (for true philosophers respect princes, but never flatter them); but because of all his readers she understood him the best, and loved truth the most.

“I beg leave, madam (without comparing myself to Descartes), to dedicate “The Henriade” to your majesty upon the like account, not only as the protectress of all arts and sciences, but as the best judge of them. “I am, with that profound respect which is due to the greatest virtue as well as the highest rank, may it please your majesty, your majesty’s most humble, most dutiful and most obliged servant,

VOLTAIRE.

The publication enriched its author, who was presented with two thousand crowns by the king and received other honours. “The Henriade” was at last “privileged” to be sold in France, in 1731. Frederick of Prussia wrote a glowing preface for a sumptuous edition he produced at lavish expense, in which he pronounced “The Henriade” the greatest of all epics, ancient or modern.

CANTO I.

THE ARGUMENT.

Henry III., joined by Henry de Bourbon, King of Navarre, against the League, having blockaded Paris, sends Henry de Bourbon privately into England, in hopes of obtaining aid from Queen Elizabeth. A violent storm overtaking him in his voyage, he is obliged to put into an island, where an old hermit receives him, and fore tells his change of religion, and accession to the throne. Description of England, and its government.

The chief renowned, who ruled in France, I sing, [1]

By right of conquest and of birth, a king;

In various sufferings resolute and brave,

Faction he quelled: he conquered, and forgave.

Subdued the dangerous League, and factious Mayenne, [2]

And curbed the headstrong arrogance of Spain.

He taught those realms he conquered to obey,

And made his subjects happy by his sway.

O heaven-born truth, descend, celestial muse,

Thy power, thy brightness in my verse infuse.

May kings attentive hear thy voice divine,

To teach the monarchs of mankind is thine.

‘Tis thine to war-enkindling realms to show

What dire effects from cursed divisions flow.

Relate the troubles of preceding times;

The people’s sufferings, and the princes’ crimes.

And O! if fable may her succours lend,

And with thy voice her softer accents blend;

If on thy light her shades sweet graces shed,

If her fair hand e’er decked thy sacred head,

Let her with me through all thy limits rove,

Not to conceal thy beauties, but improve.

Valois then governed the distracted land, [3]

Loose flowed the reins of empire in his hand:

Rights were confounded, laws neglected bore

No force, alas! for Valois reigned no more.

No more the prince for deeds of war renowned,

Whom as her son victorious conquest owned;

Whose arms through Europe spread disordered fear,

Whose loyal subjects shed the pious tear,

When the bleak North proclaimed him truly great,

And laid her crowns and sceptres at his feet.

Those rays of glory, erst in battle won,

Sank into night, and vanished from the throne.

There sat the monarch in the lap of ease,

Reclining fondly in the arms of peace;

Too weak to bear in each lethargic hour,

The regal diadem, and weight of power.

Voluptuous youths usurped the sole command,

And reigned, in truth, the sovereigns of the land.

Pleased in their soft luxurious prince to find

Corrupted morals, and a female mind.

Meantime the Guises rose at fortune’s call;

And built their schemes of greatness on his fall.

Thence sprang the League, which proved the fatal source

Of numerous ills, and baffled all his force.

The servile crowd, with vain chimeras fed,

Too blindly followed where the tyrants led.

Now from the Louvre see the monarch fly,

No faithful friend, no kind protection nigh;

All had been lost, but warlike Bourbon came, [4]

Whose generous soul was fraught with virtue’s flame.

’Twas his the royal sacrifice to save,

And teach once more the monarch to be brave.

The kings to Paris with their troops advance,

The eyes of Europe all are fixed on France.

Rome takes the alarm, her fears the Spaniards share,

And wait with dread the issue of the war.

High on the walls inhuman Discord stood,

Eager for slaughter, and athirst for blood;

Through all the city raged, nor raged in vain,

But drove to arms the hostile League, and Mayenne:

Through Church and State, the deadly poison spread,

In doubtful war the embattled ranks engage.

The plains were desolate, and carnage spread

From shore to shore her mountains of the dead,

When Valois thus addressed the chief with sighs,

And tears of sorrow streaming from his eyes:

“See to what height thy monarch’s ills are grown,

There read the faithful portrait of thy own.

With equal hate the factious Leaguers join

To strike at Bourbon’s glory, and at mine.

Seditious Paris, with a proud disdain,

Rejects the present, and the future reign.

The ties of blood, the laws, each generous care

That fills thy soul, proclaims thee lawful heir.

Great are thy virtues, and, I blush to own,

For this would Paris drive thee from the throne.

Nay, more, to show that heaven approves the deed,

Religion heaps her curses on thy head.

Rome without armies distant nations awes,

Spain hurls her thunder, and asserts her cause.

Friends, subjects, kindred, in this evil day,

Or basely fly, or proudly disobey.

Rich is the harvest of Iberia’s gains,

Who pours her legions on my desert plains.

Perchance, the succours of a foreign force

May stop the impending danger in its course.

Britannia’s queen may lend the friendly aid,

And mutual terror may our foes invade.

What, though eternal jealousy and pride

Oppose our interest, and our hearts divide,

When life’s severest ills have been endured,

My glory blasted, and my fame obscured,

When vile affronts have made my honour poor,

My subjects, and my country are no more,

Who comes these proud insulters to control

Is most my friend, and dearest to my soul.

No common, listless agent will I trust,

Be thou my envoy in a cause so just.

On thee my fortune in the war depends,

Thy merit only can procure me friends.”

Thus Valois spoke, and Bourbon heard with grief

The new designs, and counsels of the chief.

His great and generous mind disdained to yield

Thus to divide the glory of the field.

There was a time when conquest met his arm,

And all those honours which the brave can charm:

When strong in power, unaided by intrigue,

Himself, with Condé, quelled the trembling League. [5]

Yet, in obedience to the king’s command,

He left his laurels, and withdrew his hand.

The troops, amazed, with restless ardour burn,

Their fate, their fortune wait on his return.

The absent hero still preserved his fame,

The guilty city shuddered at his name:

Each moment thought the mighty warrior near,

With death and desolation in his rear.

He through the plains of Neustria bends his way,

Attended only by his friend Mornay, [6]

Mornay, too good to flatter, or deceive,

The cause of error too averse to leave.

By zeal and prudence studious to advance

Alike the interest of his Church and France,

The courtier’s censor, but at court beloved,

Rome’s greatest foe, and yet by Rome approved.

Between two rocks, which hoary ocean laves

And beats with all the fury of his waves,

The port of Dieppe meets the hero’s eyes,

And crowds of eager mariners supplies.

Their hands prepare the vessels for the main,

Those sovereign rulers of the azure plain.

The stormy Boreas, fast-enchained in air,

Leaves the smooth sea to softer Zephyr’s care.

Their anchor weighed, they swiftly quit the strand,

And soon descry Britannia’s happy land.

When lo! the day’s bright star is hid in clouds,

And gathering whirlwinds whistle through the shrouds.

Heaven gives her thunder, waves on waves arise,

And floods of lightning burst from all the skies.

Death mounts the storm, and foaming billows show

The king of terrors to the sailors’ view.

Nor death, nor dangers Bourbon’s soul annoy;

His country’s sorrows all his cares employ;

For her he casts the longing look behind,

The storm accuses, and condemns the wind.

Less generous warmth the Roman’s breast inspired,

By love of conquest, and ambition fired,

When, launching boldly from Epirus’ coast,

By angry seas and furious surges tossed,

He dared his mightier fortune to oppose

To all the power of Neptune, and his foes:

Firm, and convinced that no impending doom

Could snatch its monarch from the world, and Rome.

’Twas then that Being, infinitely wise,

At whose high will all empires fall, or rise,

Who gave this world its fair and beauteous form,

Who calms the ocean, and directs the storm,

On Gallia’s hero looked with pity down

From the bright radiance of His sapphire throne.

The waves, obedient to His dread command,

Conveyed the vessel to the neighbouring land.

Guided by heaven, secure the hero stood

Where Jersey’s isle emerges from the flood.

Near to the shore there lay a calm retreat,

By shades defended from the solar heat.

A rock, that hid the fury of the seas,

Forbade the entrance of each ruder breeze.

By nature’s hand adorned, a mossy grot

Improved the beauties of this rural spot.

A holy hermit, trained in wisdom’s ways,

There spent the quiet evening of his days.

Lost to the world, and all its trifling show,

His only study was himself to know.

O’er every fault his pensive mind would rove,

Which pleasure dictates, or which springs from love.

The flowery meadows, and the silver streams

Had raised his soul to more enlightened themes.

Each passion quelled in this retired abode,

His ardent wish was union with his God.

Wisdom before him spread her ample page,

And heaven protected his declining age.

She poured her purest blessings on his head,

And taught him Fate’s mysterious book to read.

The hoary sage, who well our hero knew,

Whom God informed with science ever true,

Near a clear stream invites the prince to taste

The simple diet of his rural feast.

He oft had fled from vanity and care,

To humble cottages, and simpler fare;

Had bid adieu to courts, and courtly pride,

And laid the pomp of majesty aside.

In plain and useful converse much was said

Of troubles through the Christian empire spread.

Mornay unmoved determined to protect

With zealous fervour Calvin and his sect.

Henry, in doubt what precepts to believe,

Petitioned heaven one ray of light to give.

“Error,” he said, “in all preceding times,

Has truth concealed, and been the nurse of crimes.

Must I then wander, and mistake the road,

Whose only confidence is placed in God?

A God, so gracious, sure will lend His aid,

And teach mankind what worship should be paid.”

“Let us,” replied the venerable seer,

“God’s secret counsels, and designs revere.

Nor rashly think that human errors bring

Their muddy currents from so pure a spring.

Well I remember, when these aged eyes

Beheld this sect in humble weakness rise,

When, as an exile dreading human sight,

It fled for refuge to the shades of night.

By slow degrees the phantom raised her head,

And all around her baleful influence shed.

Placed on the throne, no power her force confines,

She reigns our tyrant, and o’erturns our shrines.

Far from the court, in this obscure retreat,

With sighs and tears I weep Religion’s fate.

One hope remains to cheer life’s dreary vale;

So strange a worship cannot long prevail:

Its new-born glory in our days shall cease,

First sprung from man, and founded in caprice.

Frail, like ourselves, all human works decay;

God sweeps their glory and their pride away.

Safe and secure His holy city stands;

Nor dreads the malice of our mortal hands.

In vain the fabric hell and time invade,

His own right arm the strong foundation laid.

On thee, great Bourbon, will He pour His light,

And chase the mists of error from thy sight.

On Valois’ throne, with Providence thy shield,

Bright wilt thou shine, and all thy foes shall yield.

Through paths of glory conquest leads thy sword;

’Tis heaven’s decree; the Highest gave His word.

Yet hope not rashly, in the pride of youth,

To enter Paris, uninformed by truth.

But most of love’s bewitching draught beware,

The bravest hearts are conquered by the fair.

From that sweet poison guard thy manly soul;

Though passion calls, and pleasure crowns the bowl.

And when, at length, this sage advice pursued,

The factious Leaguers, and thyself subdued,

In horrid siege thy bounteous hand shall give

Life to a nation, and its strength revive;

Then all thy realms shall taste the sweets of peace,

All strife shall vanish, and all discord cease.

Then raise thine eyes to that almighty Lord

Whom erst our fathers honoured and adored.

Who most preserves His image, most shall find

That virtue pleases, and that heaven is kind.”

Thus spoke the seer, each word new warmth bestowed,

And Henry’s soul with secret raptures glowed.

Those happy days were present to his eyes,

When God to man descended from the skies;

When virtue opened all her sacred springs,

Pronounced her oracles, and governed kings.

With tears he clasped the hermit to his breast,

And parting sighs his honest grief expressed.

Far distant scenes creative fancy drew,

And rising glories dawned upon his view.

Marks of surprise were stamped on Mornay’s face,

But heaven from him withheld her gifts of grace.

The world in vain bestows the name of wise,

Where virtue beams, but error’s clouds arise.

While thus the sage, enlightened from above,

Spoke to the heart, and tried the prince to move,

Charmed with his voice the listening winds subside,

Phoebus breaks forth, and ocean smooths the tide.

By him conducted, Bourbon reached the shore,

And prosperous gales the chief to Albion bore.

Soon as he saw the sea-encircled isle,

Its change of fortune made the hero smile.

Where once the public evils owed their cause

To long abuses of the wisest laws,

Where many a warrior fell of high renown,

And kings descended from the tottering throne,

A virgin queen the regal sceptre swayed,

And fate itself her sovereign power obeyed.

The wise Eliza, whose directing hand

Had the great scale of Europe at command;

And ruled a people that alike disdain

Or freedom’s ease, or slavery’s iron chain.

Of every loss her reign oblivion bred;

There, flocks unnumbered graze each flowery mead.

Britannia’s vessels rule the azure seas,

Corn fills her plains, and fruitage loads her trees.

From pole to pole her gallant navies sweep

The waters of the tributary deep.

On Thames’s banks each flower of genius thrives,

There sports the Muse, and Mars his thunder gives.

Three different powers at Westminster appear,

And all admire the ties which join them there.

Whom interest parts, the laws together bring,

The people’s deputies, the peers, and king.

One whole they form, whose terror wide extends

To neighbouring nations, and their rights defends.

Thrice happy times, when grateful subjects show

That loyal, warm affection which is due!

But happier still, when freedom’s blessings spring

From the wise conduct of a prudent king.

“O when,” cried Bourbon, ravished at the sight,

“In France shall peace and glory thus unite?”

A female hand has closed the gates of war,

Look on, ye monarchs, and adopt her care.

Your nations Discord’s horrid tide o’erwhelms,

She lives, the blessing of adoring realms.

Now at that spacious city he arrives,

Where nursed by heaven-born freedom plenty lives.

Now, mighty William’s tower before him stood,

Now, fair Eliza’s more august abode.

Thither he speeds, attended by Mornay,

His friend and sole associate in the way.

True heroes that love pageantry and state,

Whose glittering honours captivate the great.

For France he supplicates with humble prayers,

And native dignity each accent bears.

From honest frankness all his periods flow,

The only eloquence that soldiers know.

“Does Valois send you to the banks of Thame?”

Eliza cries, surprised at Valois’s name.

“Are all your dire contentions at an end!

And you, that bitterest enemy, his friend!

Fame spread your discords, and that fame was true,

From north, to south, from Ganges, to Peru.

And does that arm, so dreaded in the fight,

Protect his honour, and maintain his right!”

“Distress,” replied the chief, “our friendship gave,

The chains are broke, and Valois will be brave.

Far happier days he once was doomed to see,

Had all his confidence been placed in me.

But fears unmanly in his breast arose,

’Twas art and cowardice that made us foes.

Henceforth, the vanquished shall my aid receive,

His wrongs I punish, and his faults forgive.

This war so just may raise Britannia’s fame,

’Tis thine, great queen, to signalize her name.

Let royal mercy spread her downy wings,

And crown thy virtues by defending kings.”

The queen, impatient, asks him to relate

What ruthless evils harassed Gallia’s state.

What springs of action had produced a change

At once so new, so wonderful, and strange.

“Full oft of bloody broils,” Eliza said,

“Through Britain’s isle has fame the rumour spread.

But who for certainty on fame depends,

Which light with darkness, truth with falsehood blends?

From you or Valois’ friend, or conquering foe,

Those long dissensions I could wish to know.

Yourself was witness, and can best impart

What mystic ties have changed so brave a heart.

Display your martial deeds, your griefs declare,

No life more worthy of a royal ear.”

“And must I then,” returned the chief with sighs,

“Recall those scenes of horror to my eyes?

O would to heaven, oblivion’s endless night

With thickest shades might veil them from my sight!

Must Bourbon tell of kindred princes’ crimes,

And the fell madness of preceding times?

I shudder at the thought, but your command,

Respect of power forbids me to withstand.

Others, no doubt, would use refined address,

Disguise the truth, and make their errors less:

But I reject an artifice so weak,

And like a soldier, not an envoy, speak.”

CANTO II.

THE ARGUMENT.

Henry the Great relates to Queen Elizabeth the history of the civil wars of France. He traces them from their origin, and enters into a detail of the massacres perpetrated on St. Bartholomew’s Day.

In France, great sovereign, to increase the curse,

Our ills are risen from a sacred source.

Religion, raging with inhuman zeal,

Arms every hand, and points the fatal steel.

To me however it will least belong

To prove the Romans, or Geneva wrong.—[7]

Whatever names divine the parties claim,

In mad imposture they are both the same.

If in the strifes, which Europe’s sons divide,

Murder and treason mark the erring side;

Since both alike in blood their hands imbrue,

Their crimes are equal, and their blindness, too.

For me, whose business is to guard the state,

I leave to heaven their vengeance and their fate.

My hand ne’er trespassed on the rights divine;

Or e’er profaned the incense of the shrine.

Perish each statesman cruel and unkind,

Who reigns despotic o’er the human mind;

Who stains with blood religion’s sacred word,

And kills, or gains new converts by his sword;

Presuming rashly that a gracious God

Approves the sacrifice of human blood.

Oh, would that God, whose laws I wish to know,

On Valois’ court such sentiments bestow!

The Guises falsely plead religion’s cause, [8]

No scruple checks them, and no conscience awes.

At me those leaders, insolent and proud,

Direct their fury, and ensnare the crowd.

These eyes have seen our citizens engage

In mutual murders, with a zealous rage:

For vain disputes have seen their pious care

Deal all around the horrid flames of war.

You know the madness of those vulgar minds

Which faction warms, and superstition blinds;

When, proudly arming in a cause divine,

No power their headstrong passion can confine.

Erst in these happy realms yourself beheld

The rising evil, and its danger quelled:

The troubled scene assumed a milder form;

Your virtuous cares subdued the gathering storm.

No reign more pleasing could I wish to see,

Your laws are flourishing, your city free.

Far other paths did Medici pursue,

Far less beloved, less merciful than you.

Moved by these tales of misery, and woe,

More of her conduct should you seek to know,

Myself her real character will tell,

Nor aught exaggerate, nor aught conceal.

Many have tried, but few could e’er impart

The secret counsels of so deep a heart.

Full twenty years within the palace bred,

Much to my cost, I saw the tempest spread.

The king expiring in the bloom of life

Left a free course to his ambitious wife.

Formed by her cares to empire, either son

Alike she hated when he reigned alone. [9]

Her hands, the source from whence confusion flowed,

The seeds of jealousy and discord sowed.

Her deep designs, no wild effect of chance,

To Condé Guise opposed, and France to France. [10]

By turns defending enemies and friends,

And rivals aiding for her private ends,

False to her sect, and superstition’s slave, [11]

She sought each pleasure which ambition gave.

Scarce did one virtuous grace adorn her mind,

Deformed with all the vices of her kind.

Forgive the freedom of an honest heart;

You reign a stranger to your sex’s art.

August Eliza, blessed with every charm

That thought can fancy, or that heaven can form,

To win affection, or to guard a state,

Lives a bright pattern to the good and great.

With love and wonder all your deeds are seen,

And Europe ranks you with her greatest men.

Francis the Second, in youth’s early pride,

By fate untimely joined his sire, and died.

Guise he adored, no more his years had shown,

Nor vice, nor virtue marked him for their own.

Charles, younger still, the regal name obtained,

But fear evinced, ‘twas Medici that reigned.

She sought by artful policy to bring

Eternal childhood on the rising king.

A hundred battles spoke her new command,

And discord’s flames were kindled by her hand.

Two rival parties she with rage inspired,

Their arms directed, and their bosoms fired.

Dreux first beheld their banners wave in air, [12]

Ill-fated theatre of horrid war!

Old Montmorency near the royal tomb [13]

Met from a warrior’s arm a warrior’s doom.

At Orleans Guise resigned his latest breath, [14]

A stern assassin gave the stroke of death.

My father still unwilling slave at court,

Was fortune’s bubble, and the queen’s support;

Wrought his own fate, in battle firmly stood,

And died for those who thirsted for his blood.

Condé vouchsafed a parent’s aid to lend,

My surest guardian, and my truest friend.

Nursed in his camp, beneath the laurel’s shade,

Amidst surrounding heroes was I bred.

Like him disdaining indolence and sloth,

Arms were the toys and playthings of my youth.

O plains of Jarnac! O unhappy day

That took my guardian and my friend away!

Condé, whose kind protection I enjoyed,

Thy murdering hand, O Montesquieu, destroyed:

Too weak, too feeble to avenge the blow,

I saw thee deal destruction on the foe.

Young and untaught, exposed to every ill,

Heaven found some hero to protect me still;

Great Condé first my steps to glory trained,

Next my good cause Coligny’s arm sustained: [15]

Coligny, gracious queen! if Europe see

A virtue worthy her regard in me,

If Rome herself confess my youthful days

Not unrenowned, Coligny’s be the praise.

Early I learned beneath his eye to bear

A soldier’s hardships in the school of war;

His great example my ambition fired,

His counsel formed me, and his deeds inspired.

I saw him gray in arms, yet undismayed,

The general cause reclining on his aid;

Dear to his friends, respected by the foe,

Firm in all states, majestic though in woe;

Expert alike in battle and retreat,

More glorious, even more awful in defeat,

Than Gaston or Dunois in all the pride

Of war, with France and fortune at their side.

Ten years elapsed of battles lost and won,

Still on the field our well-armed legions shone;

With grief the queen her barren trophies viewed,

Our hardy troops, though vanquished, unsubdued,

And at one stroke, one fatal stroke ordained

To sweep the civil fury from the land.

Sudden new counsels in her court prevailed,

And peace was offered, when the sword had failed.

Peace! be thou witness, heaven’s avenging power!

That treacherous olive how it blushed with gore;

Gods! is it then so hard a task to stray,

And shall their monarchs teach mankind the way?

True to his sovereign still, devoutly true

Though he opposed her, to his country, too,

Coligny seized the happy hour to heal

Her bleeding interests, with a patriot’s zeal.

Undaunted through surrounding foes he pressed,

(Suspicion seldom haunts a hero’s breast)

Nor stayed, till in her own august abode,

Full in the midst before the queen we stood.

With circling arms and flowing tears she strove

To lavish o’er me even a mother’s love;

Coligny’s friendship was her dearest choice,

Still to be ruled by his unerring voice;

Wealth, power, and honour at his feet she laid,

Her son’s indulgence to our hopes displayed,

Vain flattering hopes alas! and quickly fled.

All were not blinded by this specious show

Of cordial grace and bounty from the foe.

But Charles, still anxious to insure success,

More bounteous seemed, as they believed him less.

Trained up in falsehood from his earliest youth,

He held eternal enmity with truth;

From infant years had treasured in his heart

The poisonous precepts of his mother’s art;

And fierce by nature, merciless and proud,

With ease was ripened to the work of blood.

More deeply still to veil the dark design,

By nuptial bands he made his sister mine. [16]

Oh, bands accursed, and Hymen’s rites profaned,

By heaven in anger for our curse ordained,

Whose baleful torch, dire omen of our doom,

Blazed but to lead me to a mother’s tomb.

Though I have suffered let me still be just,

Nor blame thee, Medici, but where I must,

Suspicions, though on reason firmly built,

I scorn, nor need them to enhance thy guilt.

But Albret died—forgive these tears I shed, [17]

Due to the fond remembrance of the dead.

Meanwhile the dreadful hour in swift career,

Big with the queen’s vindictive wrath, drew near.

Night’s gloomy mantle thrown o’er earth and heaven,

Silent and still the appointed sign was given.

The moon, pale regent, faltered on her way, [18]

And sickening seemed to quench her feeble ray.

Coligny slept, and largely o’er his head

The drowsy power had all his influence shed.

Sudden unnumbered shrieks dispelled the charm,

His rallying senses felt the dread alarm;

He waked, looked forth, and saw the assassin throng

With murderous strides march hastily along:

Saw on their arms the quivering torch-light play,

His palace fired, a nation in dismay,

His bleeding household stifled in the flames,

While all the savage host around exclaims,

“Let not compassion check your righteous hands,

’Tis God, ‘tis Medici, ’tis Charles commands.”

Now his own name shrill echoing rends the skies,

And now far off Teligny he descries, [19]

Teligny, famed for every virtuous grace,

Whose truth had earned his daughter’s chaste embrace,

Hope of his cause, and honour of his race.

The bleeding youth by ruffians’ force conveyed,

With outstretched arms demands his instant aid.

Helpless, unarmed, he saw his fate decreed,

Saw that his blood must unavenged be shed;

Yet bravely anxious for renown achieved,

Wished but to die the hero he had lived.

Already the tumultuous band explore

His own recess, and thunder at the door.

Instant he flings it wide, and meets the foe

With eye untroubled, and majestic brow,

Such as in battle with deliberate breast,

Serene, he urged the slaughter, or repressed.

Awful and sage he stood, his gracious form

Quelled the loud tumult, and controlled the storm.

“Finish, my friends, your fatal task,” he said,

“Bathe in my freezing blood this hoary head,

These locks, which yet full many a boisterous year

E’en the rough chance of war has deigned to spare.

Strike, and strike deep; be satisfied and know

With my last breath I can forgive the blow,

The mean desire of life my soul abjures,

Yet happier! might I die, defending yours.”

The savage band grown human at his words,

Clasping his knees let fall their idle swords;

Prone on the ground his pardoning grace implore,

And at his feet repentant sorrows pour;

He in the midst, like some loved monarch rose,

Theme of his subjects’ praise, and idol of their vows.

When Besme, impatient for his destined prey, [20]

Rushed headlong in, enraged at their delay;

Furious he saw the deed unfinished yet,

And each assassin trembling at his feet.

No change in him this scene of sorrow wrought,

Hard and unfeeling still, the caitiff thought,

Whoe’er relented at Coligny’s fate,

Was the queen’s foe, a rebel to the State.

Athwart the crowd he breaks impetuous way,

Firm stands the chief, unconscious of dismay,

Deep in his side the fierce barbarian struck

The fatal steel, but with averted look,

Lest at a glance that eye’s resistless charm

Should freeze his purpose and unnerve his arm.

Such was the brave Coligny’s mournful end;

Affront and outrage e’en his death attend, [21]

The ravening hawk and vulture hover round

His mangled limbs, still festering on the ground.

At the queen’s feet his sacred head is thrown,

A conquest worthy both herself and son.

With brow unaltered and serene she sate,

Nor seemed t’enjoy the victim of her hate;

To veil her secret thoughts so well she knew,

Such presents seemed familiar to her view.

Vain were the task and endless to recite

Each horrid scene of that disastrous night;

Coligny’s death served only to presage

Our future woes, an earnest of their rage.

Legions of bigots, flushed with fiery zeal

And frantic ardour, shake the murdering steel;

Proudly they march where heaps of slaughter rise,

Unsated vengeance sparkling in their eyes.

Guise in the van full many a victim paid [22]

Indignant, to his father’s injured shade;

Their leaders animate the troops aloud,

And chafe to madness the deluded crowd;

Long registers of death’s foredoomed display,

And guide the poniard to its destined prey.

The tumult I omit, the deafening screams,

The blood that floated in promiscuous streams;

How on his father’s corpse struck rudely down,

Convulsed with anguish fell the expiring son;

How when the flames had split the mouldering wall,

It crushed the cradled infant in its fall:

Events like these we view with less surprise,

For still they mark the track where human frenzy flies.

But stranger far, what few will e’er believe

In future ages, or yourself conceive,

The barbarous rout, whose hearts with added fire,

Those holy savages, their priests, inspire;

Even from the carnage call upon the Lord,

And waving high in air the reeking sword,

Offer aloud to God the sacrifice abhorred.

What numerous heroes in that havoc died!

Renel and brave Pardaillan by his side, [23]

Guerchy and wise Lavardin, worthy well [24]

A longer life and gentler fortune, fell,

Among the wretches, whom that night of woe

Plunged in the gloom of endless night below,

Marsillac and Soubise, marked down for death, [25]

Defended stoutly their devoted breath,

’Till all with labour wearied and foredone,

Close to the Louvre’s gate pushed roughly on,

While to their king with suppliant voice they cry,

Deaf to their prayers, he hears not, and they die.

High on the roof the royal fury stood,

At leisure feasting on the scenes of blood,

Her cruel minions watch the gloomy host,

And mark the spot where slaughter rages most;

Brave chiefs! triumphant only in their shame,

They saw their country blaze, and gloried in the flame.

Oh, scandal to the name of king revered! [26]

Himself, the monarch, joins the felon herd;

Himself the trembling fugitives pursues,

And even his sacred hands in blood imbrues.

This Valois, too, whose cause I now support,

Who comes by me, a suppliant to your court,

Shared in his brother’s guilt an impious part,

And roused the flames of vengeance in his heart;

Nor yet is Valois fierce, of savage mood,

Or prone by nature to delight in blood;

But on his youth those dire examples wrought,

And weakness, more than malice, was his fault.

A few there were whom vengeance sought in vain,

Who escaped unhurt among the thousands slain.

Caumont! thy fortune, thy auspicious fate, [27]

Ages unborn with wonder shall relate.

The hoary sire between his sons reposed,

His aged eyes in needful slumber closed,

One bed sufficed them all; when rushing in

The fell destroyers marred the peaceful scene,

With hasty strokes their poniards plunging round,

They deal a random death at every wound.

But He, whose mercies o’er our fate preside,

Can waft with ease the threatening hour aside;

Through very zeal to slay, they spare the son,

And not a trace of mischief reached Caumont.

A hand unseen was stretched in his defence,

And screened from harm his infant innocence;

Pierced with a thousand murders, to their force

His father still opposed his bleeding corse,

And a whole nation’s ardour to destroy

Eluding, twice gave being to his boy.

Me to sweet sleep resigned, and balmy rest,

No fear alarmed, no jealousy possessed;

Deep in the Louvre at that dreadful hour,

Far from the din of arms I slept secure:

But oh! what scenes my waking eyes surveyed,

Grim death in all its horrid pomp arrayed,

Porches and porticoes were deluged o’er,

With crimson streams, and stood in pools of gore;

My friends still bleeding, my domestics slain,

The truest, best, and dearest of my train.

Already at my bed the villains stand

Prepared, already lift the murdering hand;

My life hangs wavering on a point, I wait

The final stroke, and yield me to my fate.

But whether reverence of their ancient lords,

The blood of Bourbon, checked their daring swords;

Whether ingenious to torment, the queen

Held Henry’s life a sacrifice too mean;

Or wisely spared it, to secure alone

In future storms, a shelter for her own;

Instead of death, at once to set me free,

Chains and a dungeon were her stern decree.

Far happier was the fate Coligny shared,

His life alone her treacherous arts ensnared,

The hero’s freedom still, and glory unimpaired.

I see Eliza shares in the distress,

Though half the sad recital I suppress.

It seemed as from the queen’s malignant eye

All France had caught the signal to destroy;

Swift from the capital on every side

Death o’er the kingdom stretched his banners wide.

Kings in their vengeance are too well obeyed;

Whole armies blindly lend their impious aid;

France floats in blood, and all her rivers sweep

Upon their purple tides, the carnage to the deep.

CANTO III.

THE ARGUMENT.

The hero continues the history of the civil wars of France. The unfortunate death of Charles IX. Reign of Henry III. His character. That of the famous Duke of Guise, known by the name of Balafré. Battle of Coutras. Murder of the Duke of Guise. Extremities to which Henry III. is reduced. Mayenne at the head of the League. D’Aumale the hero of it. Reconciliaton of Henry III., and Henry, King of Navarre. Queen Elizabeth’s answer to Henry de Bourbon.

When many a day (for thus the fates ordained)

With blackest deeds of murder had been stained;

When each assassin cruel, and abhorred,

Fatigued with crimes, had sheathed his glutted sword;

Those crimes at length the factious crowd alarmed

Whom zeal had blinded and their sovereign armed.

As rage subsided, melting pity moved

Each friend to virtue who his country loved;

Her plaintive voice awakened softer cares,

And Charles himself relented at her tears.

That early culture, by ill fate designed

To blast the fairer blossoms of his mind,

Conscience subdued—her whispering voice alone

Can shake with terror the securest throne.

Not all his mother’s principles could frame

A heart like hers, insensible of shame.

Severe remorse his anxious soul dismayed,

His strength was wasted, and his youth decayed.

Heaven marked him out in vengeance for his crimes,

A dread example to succeeding times.

Myself was present at his latest breath,

And still I shudder at that scene of death,

When, in return for tides of Gallic blood,

Each bursting vein poured forth the crimson flood. [28]

Thus fell lamented in his early prime

A youthful monarch bred to every crime,

From whose repentance we had hoped to gain

The balmy blessings of a milder reign.

Soon as he died, with speed advancing forth

From the bleak bosom of the wintry North

Great Valois came, like some bright Orient star,

To claim his birthright in these realms of war.

On him Polonia had bestowed her throne, [29]

Deemed by each province worthy of the crown.

Great are the dangers of too bright a name,

E’en Valois sank beneath the weight of fame:

Though in his cause each danger I defy,

Could toil forever, and with transport die,

Yet, heaven-born truth, this tongue thy accents loves,

And praises only what the heart approves.

Soon was the race of all his greatness run;

As morning vapours fly before the sun.

Oft have I marked these changes, often seen,

Heroes and kings become the weakest men:

Have seen the laurelled prince in battle brave

Wear the soft chain, and live a courtier’s slave.

This fact by long experience have I known,

Seeds of true courage in the mind are sown.

Valois was formed by heaven’s peculiar care

For martial prowess, and the deeds of war:

Yet was too weak the rod of power to wield,

Though great in arms and steady in the field.

Detested minions showed their artful skill,

And reigned supreme the sovereigns of his will.

His voice but dictated their own decrees;

Whilst they, indulging in voluptuous ease,

Drank of each joy which luxury supplies,

And scorned to listen to a nation’s cries.

Unmoved beheld afflicted France lament

Her strength exhausted, and her treasures spent.

Beneath their yoke whilst Valois tamely bowed,

And new oppressions from new taxes flowed,

Lo Guise appears! ambition spurs him on, [30]

All eyes are fixed upon this rising sun.

His deeds of war, the glory of his race,

His manly beauty, and attractive grace;

But more than all, that happy, pleasing art,

Which wins our love, and steals upon the heart,

Subdued e’en those whom virtue faintly warms,

And gained their wishes by resistless charms.

None e’er like him could lead the mind astray,

Or rule the passions with more sovereign sway.

None e’er concealed from busy, curious eyes,

Their dark intentions in so fair disguise.

Though proud ambition kindled in his soul,

His cooler judgment could that pride control.

To gain the crowd, and win deserved esteem,

Detested levies were his daily theme.

Oft have they heard his flattering tongue declare

The public sorrows were his only care.

On modest worth he lavished all his store,

Or clothed the naked, or enriched the poor.

Oft would his alms prevent the starting tear,

And tell that Guise and charity were near.

All arts were tried which cunning might afford,

To court the nobles whom his soul abhorred.

Alike to virtue, as to vice inclined.

Or love, or endless hatred ruled his mind.

He braved all dangers which on arms await,

No chief more bold, none more oppressed the State.

When time at length had made his influence strong,

And fixed the passions of the giddy throng;

Stripped of disguise unmasked the traitor shone,

Defied his sovereign, and attacked the throne.

Within our walls the fatal League began,

And next through France the dire contagion ran.

Nursed by all ranks the hideous monster stood,

Pregnant with woes, and rioting in blood.

Two monarchs ruled o’er Gallia’s hapless land:

This shared alone the shadow of command;

That wide diffused fierce war’s destructive flame,

Master of all things save the royal name.

Valois awaked the threatening danger sees,

And quits the slumbers of lethargic ease.

But still to ease, and indolence a prey,

His eyes are dazzled by the blaze of day.

Though o’er his head the stormy thunders roll,

Nor storms, nor thunders rouse his sluggish soul.

Sweet to his taste the streams of pleasure flow,

And sleep conceals the precipice below.

Myself remained, the next succeeding heir,

To save the monarch, or his ruin share:

Eager I flew his weakness to supply;

Firmly resolved to conquer, or to die.

But Guise, alas! that sly, dissembling fiend,

By craft deprived him of his truest friend.

That old pretence through all revolving time,

Divine religion, veiled the horrid crime.

The busy crowd fictitious virtue warmed,

With zeal inspired them, and with fury armed.

Before their eyes in lively tints he drew

That ancient worship which their fathers knew.

From new-born sects declared what ills had flowed,

And painted Bourbon as a foe to God.

“Through all your climes, forbid it heaven!” he said,

“His tenets flourish, and his errors spread.

Yon walls, that cast a sacred horror round,

Will soon be sunk, and levelled with the ground.

Soon will you see unhallowed temples rise,

And point their airy summits to the skies.

So loved by Bourbon, so adored has been

The cursed example of Britannia’s queen.”

Scarce had he spoke when lo! the public fear

Was swiftly wafted to the royal ear.

Nay, more, the Leaguers issue Rome’s decree,

And curse the monarch that unites with me.

Now was this arm prepared to strike the blow,

Pour forth its strength, and thunder on the foe;

When Valois, won by subtle, dark intrigue,

Fixed on my ruin, and obeyed the League.

Unnumbered soldiers armed in dread array

Filled every plain, and spoke the king’s dismay.

With grief I saw such jealousy disclosed,

Bewailed his weakness, and his power opposed.

A thousand states were lavish of supplies,

Each passing hour beheld new armies rise,

Led on by fierce Joyeuse and well instructed Guise.

Guise, formed alike for prudence as for war,

Dispersed my friends, and baffled all their care.

Still undismayed, such strength my valour boasts,

I pressed through myriads of embattled hosts.

Through all the field I fought the proud Joyeuse—

But stay—the rest Eliza will excuse.

More of that chief ‘twere needless to relate,

You’ve heard his end, and fame has spread his fate.

“Not so,” the queen with eagerness replied,

“Well hast thou spoke with modesty thy guide;

But deign to tell me what I wish to hear,

Such themes are worthy of Eliza’s ear:

Joyeuse his fall in vivid colours draw;

Go on, and paint thy conquest at Coutras.”

Touched with these words the hero hung his head;

An honest blush his manly cheek o’erspread.

Pausing a while, the tale he thus led on,

Yet wished the glory any but his own.

Of all, who Valois could by flattery move,

Who nursed his weakness, and enjoyed his love

Joyeuse illustrious best deserved to share

The fairest sunshine of his royal care.

If to his years the stern decree of fate

Had fixed some period of a longer date,

In noble exploits had his virtue shone,

And Guise’s greatness not excelled his own.

But vice o’er virtue gained superior force,

Court was his cradle, luxury his nurse:

Yet dared the amorous chieftain to oppose

Unskilful valour to experienced foes.

From pleasure’s downy lap the courtiers came

To guard his person, and to share his fame.

In gay attire each gallant youth was dressed;

Some cipher glittered on each martial vest,

Some dear distinction, such as lovers wear,

To tell the fondness of the yielding fair.

The costly sapphire, or the diamond’s rays,

O’er their rich armour shed the vivid blaze.

Thus decked by folly, thus elate and vain,

These troops of Venus issued to the plain.

Swift marched their ranks, as tumult led the way,

Unwisely brave, and impotently gay.

In Bourbon’s camp, disdaining empty show,

Far other scenes were opened to the view:

An army, silent as the dead of night,

Displayed its forces well inured to fight;

Men gray in arms, and disciplined to blood,

Who bravely suffered for their country’s good.

The only graces, that employed their care,

Were swords well pointed, and the dress of war.

Like them arrayed, and steady to my trust,

I led the squadrons covered o’er with dust.

Like them ten thousand deaths I dared to face,

Distinguished only by my rank and place.

These eyes beheld the brilliant foe o’erthrown,

Expiring legions, and the field our own.

Deep in their breasts I plunged the fatal spear,

And wished some Spanish bosom had been there.

Still shall my tongue their honest praises tell;

Firm at his post each youthful courtier fell,

And bravely struggled to his latest breath

Amidst the terrors of surrounding death.

Our silken sons of pleasure and of ease

Preserve their valour in the midst of peace.

Called forth to war, they bravely scorn to yield,

Servile at court, but heroes in the field.

Joyeuse, alas! I tried, in vain, to save;

None heard the orders which my mercy gave.

Too soon I saw him sunk to endless night,

Sustained by kind associates in the fight,

A pale and breathless corpse, all ghastly to the sight.

Thus some fair stem, whose opening flowers display

Their fragrant bosoms to the dawn of day,

Which decks the early scene, and fresh appears

With zephyrs’ kisses, and Aurora’s tears,

Too soon decays, on nature’s lap reclined,

Cropped by the scythe, or scattered by the wind.

But why should memory recall to view

Those horrid triumphs to oblivion due?

Conquests so gained forever cease to charm,

Whilst Gallic blood still blushes on my arm.

Those beams of grandeur with false lustre shone,

And tears bedew the laurels which I won.

Unhappy Valois! that ill-fated day

Showered down on thee dishonour and dismay.

Paris grew proud, the League’s submission less,

And Guise’s glory doubled thy distress.

Vimori’s plains saw Guise the sword unsheath,

Germania suffered for Joyeuse’s death.

Auneau beheld my army of allies

Yield to his power, defeated by surprise.

Through Paris’ streets he marched with haughty air,

Arrayed in laurels, and the pride of war.

E’en Valois tamely to his insults bowed,

And served this idol of the gazing crowd.

Shame will at length the coolest courage warm,

And give new vigour to the weakest arm.

Such vile affronts made Valois less incline

To offer incense at so mean a shrine.

Too late he tried his greatness to restore,

And reign the monarch he had lived before.

Now deemed a tyrant by the factious crew,

Nor loyal fear nor love his subjects knew.

All Paris arms, sedition spreads the flame,

And headstrong mutiny asserts her claim.

Encircling troops raise high the hostile mound,

Besiege his palace, and his guards surround.

Guise undisturbed, amidst the raging storm,

Gave it a milder, or severer form:

Ruled the mad tumult of rebellious spleen,

And guided, as he pleased, the great machine.

All had been lost; and Valois doomed to die

By one command, one glance of Guise’s eye;

But when each arm was ready for the blow,

Compassion soothed the fierceness of the foe;

Enough were deemed the terrors of the fight,

And meek-eyed pity gave the power of flight.

Guise greatly erred, such subjects all things dare,

Their king must perish, or themselves despair.

This day confirmed, and strengthened in his schemes,

He saw that all was fatal but extremes:

Himself must mount the scaffold, or the throne,

The lord of all things, or the lord of none.

Through Gallia’s realms adored, from conquest vain,

Aided by Rome, and seconded by Spain;

Pregnant with hope, and absolute in power,

He thought those iron ages to restore,

When erst our kings in mouldering cloisters lived,

In early infancy of crowns deprived.

In hallowed shades they wept the hours away,

Whilst tyrants governed with oppressive sway.

Valois, indignant at so high a crime,

Delayed his vengeance to some better time.

Our states at Blois were summoned to appear,

And fame, no doubt, has told you what they were.

In barren streams from oratory’s tongue

Smooth flowed the tide of eloquence along;

Laws were proposed whose power none e’er perceived,

And ills lamented which none e’er relieved.

Guise in the midst, with high imperious pride,

Was vainly seated by his sovereign’s side.

Sure of success, he saw around the throne,

Or thought he saw, no subjects but his own.

These sons of infamy, this venal band

Was ready to bestow the dear command,

When Valois’s power was destined to appear,

And burst the chains of mercy and of fear.

Each day his rival studied to attain

The mean, the odious triumphs of disdain;

Nor deemed that ever such a prince could show

Those stern resolves which strike the assassin’s blow.

Fate o’er his eyes with envious hand had spread

Her thickest veil’s impenetrable shade.

The hour arrived when Guise was doomed to bear

That lot of nature which all mortals share.

Disgraced with wounds before the royal eye

The mighty victim was condemned to die.

All pale, and covered by the crimson tide,

This sun descended in his native pride.

The parting soul, by thirst of glory fired,

In life’s last moments to the throne aspired.

Thus fell the powerful chief, assemblage rare [31]

Of foulest vices, and perfections fair.

With other conduct than to kings belongs,

Did Valois suffer, and avenge his wrongs.

Soon did the dire report through Paris spread,

That heaven was injured, and that Guise was dead.

The young, the old, with unavailing sighs

Displayed their grief, and joined their plaintive cries.

The softer sex invoked the powers above,

And clasped his statues in the arms of love.

All Paris thought her father and her God

Called loud for vengeance, and inspired to blood.

Amidst the rest, the brave and valiant Mayenne

Sought not their zealous fury to restrain:

But more by interest than resentment moved,

The flame augmented, and their zeal approved.

Mayenne, under Guise inured to war’s alarms,

Was nursed in battle, and trained up to arms:

His brother’s equal in each dark intrigue,

And now the lord and glory of the League.

Thus highly raised, thus eminently great;

He grieved no longer for his brother’s fate:

But better pleased to govern, than obey,

Forgot the loss, and wiped his tears away.

Mayenne, with a soul to generous deeds inclined,

A statesman’s cunning, and a hero’s mind,

By subtle arts unnumbered followers draws

To yield him homage, and to serve his laws.

Skilful e’en good from evil to produce,

Full well he knows their talents and their use.

Though brighter splendours dazzled all our eyes,

Not greater dangers ever rose from Guise.

To young Aumale, and this more prudent guide,

The Leaguers owe their courage and their pride.

Aumale, the great invincible by name,

Is high exalted in the lists of fame.

Through all their ranks he spreads ambition’s fires,

Presumptuous valour, and his own desires.

Unshaken in their cause the League protects,

And bravely executes what Mayenne directs.

Meantime, the king, whose power the Germans dread,

To deeds inhuman from his cradle bred;

That tyrant Catholic, that artful foe,

Incensed at Bourbon, and Eliza too:

Ambitious Philip sends his warlike train

To aid our rivals, and the cause of Mayenne.

Rome, best employed in making wars to cease,

Lights Discord’s torch, and bids her fires increase.

The same fierce views the Christian father owns,

Points the keen blade, and animates his sons.

From Europe’s either end the torrent falls:

Uniting sorrows burst upon our walls.

Weak, and defenceless in this evil hour

Valois relented, and implored my power.

Humane benevolence my soul approves,

The state commiserates, and Valois loves.

Impending dangers banish all my ire,

A brother’s safety is my sole desire.

With honest zeal I labour for his good:

’Tis duty calls me, and the ties of blood.

I know the royal dignity my own,

And vindicate the honours of the crown.

Nor treaty made, nor hostage asked I came,

And told him, courage was his guide to fame.

On Paris’ ramparts bid him cast his eye,

And there resolve to conquer, or to die.

These friendly words, thus happily applied,

Through all his soul diffused a generous pride.

Manners thus changed, thus resolutely brave,

The sense of shame, and not example gave.

The serious lessons, which misfortune brings,

Are needful often, and of use to kings.

Thus Henry spoke with honesty of heart,

And begged for succours on Eliza’s part.

Now from the towers where rebel Discord stood,

Conquest recalls him to her scenes of blood.

The flower of England follows to the plain,

And cleaves the bosom of the azure main.

Essex commands—the proud Iberian knows

That Essex conquers e’en the wisest foes;

Full little deeming that injurious fate

Should blast his laurels with her keenest hate.

To France brave Henry hastens to repair,

Eager to grace the theatre of war.

“Go,” said the queen, “thyself, and virtue please;

My troops attend thee o’er the azure seas.

For thee, not Valois, they endure the fight;

Thy cares must guard them, and defend their right.

From thy example will they scorn to swerve;

And rather seem to imitate, than serve.

Who now the sword for valiant Bourbon draws

Will learn to triumph in Britannia’s cause.

Oh! may thy power the factious Leaguers quell,

And Mayenne’s allies thy gallant conquests feel!

Spain is too weak thy rebel foes to save,

And Roman thunders never awe the brave.

Go, free mankind, and break the iron chains

Where Sixtus governs, or where Philip reigns.

The cruel Philip, artful as his sire

In all that views of interest may require,

Though less renowned in war, less great and brave,

Division spreads in order to enslave;

Forms in his palace each ambitious scheme,

And boundless triumph is his darling theme.

“Lo! Sixtus raised from nothing to the throne, [32]

Designs more haughty blushes not to own.

Montalto’s shepherd monarchs would o’ercome,

And dictate laws in Paris, as at Rome:

Safe in the honours which adorn his brow,

To Philip, and to all mankind a foe:

As serves his cause, or insolent, or meek,

Rival of kings, and tyrant o’er the weak.

Through every clime, with faction at their head,

E’en to our court his dark intrigues have spread.

These mighty rulers fear not to defy;

They both have dared Eliza’s power to try:

Witness, ye seas! how Philip fought in vain

’Gainst English valour, and the stormy main.

These shores beheld the proud Armada lost;

Yon purple billows bore the floating host.

Rome’s pontiff still in quiet silence bears

The loss of conquest, and our greatness fears.

“Display thy banners in the martial field;

When Mayenne is conquered, Rome herself will yield.

Though proud when fortune smiles, her own defeat

Lays her submissive at the victor’s feet.

Prompt to condemn, and eager to absolve,

Her flames and thunders wait on thy resolve.”

CANTO IV.

THE ARGUMENT.

D’Aumale is on the point of being master of the camp of Henry III., when the hero, returning from England, engages the Leaguers and changes the fortune of the day. Discord comforts Mayenne, and flies to Rome for aid. Description of Rome. Discord meets with Policy. She returns with her to Paris, causes an insurrection of the Sorbonne; animates the Sixteen against the parliament, and arms the monks. Troubles and confusion in Paris.

While thus sequestered from the train of State,

Their glorious interests sagely they debate,

At leisure o’er the princely science stray,

Combat and conquest and imperial sway,

The Seine with terror saw the chiefs combined

Spread on his banks their banners to the wind.

Anxious the king, from Henry distant far,

Bewailed the uncertain destiny of war;

His cheering aid irresolute he needs,

For victory follows still where Bourbon leads.

With triumph the confederate bands beheld

His weak dismay, and eager sought the field;

Chilled every dreadful hour with fresh alarms,

He saw the o’erwhelming torrent of their arms,

And prone to change, and hasty to repent,

Regrets his absence whom himself had sent.

’Long with these traitors to their lawful lord,

Joyeuse’s brother drew the factious sword; [33]

By turns a soldier and a saint was he,

Now all for arms, and now a devotee,

Preferred, as when inclined his wavering soul,

One hour the helmet, and the next the cowl.

He left the scenes of penitence and tears,

To bark sedition in the Leaguers’ ears,

And bathed remorseless in his country’s blood,

The hand just then devoted to his God.

Of all the chiefs for valour most renowned,

Whose prowess shed despair and horror round,

Whose puissant arms the boldest might appal,

The first in feats of glory was d’Aumale. [34]

Sprung from the far-famed heroes of Lorraine,

King, laws, and peace alike were his disdain;

The noblest youths his daring steps pursue,

With them incessant to the field he flew,

Now in still march, now shouting from afar,

By day, by night, he urged the varying war,

Assailed the unguarded foe on every side,

And with their blood the dusty champaign dyed.

So from proud Athos or Imaus’ height,

Where earth, sea, air lie stretched before the sight,

With headlong speed the rapid eagle flies,

And vultures dart along the gloomy skies;

With hungry beaks the feathered spoil they rend,

Resistless on the bleating flocks descend,

And soaring to their airy cliffs convey

With screams of cruel joy, the living prey.

Fired on a time and frantic with the thirst

Of glory, to the royal tent he pierced;

Dark was the night and sudden the surprise,

Around the camp a panic horror flies;

The torrent of his arms o’erlooks the mound,

And the big deluge threatens all around.

But when the day-star raised his glimmering urn,

Came Mornay to announce his lord’s return;

With joyful speed the impatient chief drew near,

When the rough din smote loudly on his ear,

Amazed he flies, sees terror and distress

In the king’s troops, nor even in Bourbon’s less,

“And are you vanquished, and is this,” he cried,

“Is this the glorious welcome you provide

For Henry, for your Henry?” At that name

Their hearts were flushed again with valour’s glowing flame.

So when the Sabine arms drove trembling home,

Even to the capital, the bands of Rome,

His guardian god their mighty founder hailed,

And in the name of Stator Jove prevailed.

“Let him,” they cry, “let Henry lead the fight,

And we must conquer in our Henry’s sight.”

Keen as the flash that cleaves the stormy cloud,

In the mid camp the dazzling hero stood,

Impetuous to the foremost ranks he flies,

Death in his hand, and lightning in his eyes;

The ambitious chiefs crowd fast around his shield,

At once he shifts the fortune of the field,

His stern approach the pale confederates shun,

As stars diminished fade before the sun.

D’Aumale enraged tries every art in vain

To rally their disordered files again;

His voice a while their timorous flight withheld,

But Henry’s drove them headlong o’er the field;

His awful front strikes terror through the foe,

Their chief unites them, and their fears o’erthrow:

’Till even d’Aumale reluctant borne along

Obeys the o’erwhelming torrent of the throng.

Incumbered thus with many a winter’s snow,

Some rock forsakes the mountain’s lofty brow,

And wrapt in sheets of ice, rolls o’er the vale below.

He shows to the besieging powers around

His front so long with matchless glory crowned,

Bursts through the multitude, and loathing life,

Seeks in despair once more the mortal strife;

Restrains a while the victor’s rapid course,

’Till weak, and baffled by superior force,

Each moment he expects the fatal meed,

Death, the just wages of his hardy deed.

But Discord, for her darling chief afraid,

Flies swift to save him, for she needs his aid,

Between her champion and the foe, she held

Her massy, broad, impenetrable shield,

Whose sight, or rage, or terror can convey,

Omen of death, and meteor of dismay.

Offspring of Hell! from her infernal cave

Then first she came, to succour and to save,

Then first her hand, dire instrument of death,

Redeemed from instant fate a hero’s breath.

Forth from the field, her minion, covered o’er

With wounds unfelt amid his toil, she bore,

His anguish with a lenient hand allayed,

And staunched the blood that in her cause was shed.

But while her labours to his limbs impart

Their wonted health, her venom taints his heart.

Thus tyrants oft, with treacherous pity, stay

The wretched doom, and spare but to betray;

Act by his arm the purpose of their hate

And dark revenge, then yield him to his fate.

Bold to achieve, nor fraught with wisdom less

To catch the auspicious moment of success,

Victorious Henry urged the important blow,

And with new fury pressed the astonished foe.

Close in their walls their dire disgrace they mourn,

And dread the assault, and tremble in their turn.

Even Valois now, to martial deeds inspired

The troops, himself by Henry’s actions fired;

Laughs at all pain, despises all alarms,

And owns even toil and danger have their charms.

No secret feuds the jarring chiefs confound,

Their brave attempts were all with glory crowned;

Horror, where’er they march, their way prepares.

The ramparts tremble, and the foe despairs.

Where now shall Mayenne deep sorrowing seek redress,

His troops, a people groaning in distress!

The weeping orphan here her sire demands,

There brethren claim their brother at his hands;

Each mourns the present, dreads the future most,

And disaffection rends the murmuring host.

Some counsel flight, surrender some prefer,

But all renounce unanimous the war;

So light the feeble vulgar, and so near

Their headstrong rashness is allied to fear.

Their ruin he beheld already wrought,

A thousand plans perplex his labouring thought;

When Discord by her snaky locks confessed,

Stood forth revealed and thus the chief addressed:

“August descendant of an awful line,

Whose vengeful cause unites thee firm to mine;

Formed by my counsel, nursed beneath my care,

Know thy protectress, and her voice revere.

Shall wretches base as these thy fears excite,

Who freeze with horror at a loss so slight?

Slaves of my power, and vassals of my will,

Even now our great designs they shall fulfil;

Let but my breath their dastard bosoms fire,

They court the combat, and with joy expire.”

She spoke, and rapid as the lightning’s flight,

Glanced through the clouds, and vanished from his sight.

Around the French she saw confusion lower,

And hailed the sight, and blessed the welcome hour;

The teeming earth grew barren as she passed,

And the bright blossoms withered at the blast;

Flat in the furrow lies the blighted ear,

Pale and half quenched the sickening stars appear;

Beneath her bursts the thunder’s sullen sound,

And death-like horror seized the nations round.

Dark scowling o’er the flowery vales below,

A whirlwind snatched her to the banks of Po.

Toward Rome at length her baleful eye she rolled,

Rome, the world’s dread, and Discord’s fane of old,

Imperial Rome, by destiny designed,

In peace, in war, the mistress of mankind.

By conquest first she stretched her wide domain,

And all earth’s monarchs wore her galling chain;

On arms alone her solid empire grew,

And the world crouched where’er her eagle flew.

More peaceful art her modern rule supports,

Now even her conquerors tremble in her courts;

Deep rooted in their hearts her power she sees,

And needs no thunder but her own decrees.

High on that gorgeous wreck of ancient war,

Where Mars for ages drove his rattling car,

A pontiff now maintains his priestly state,

And fills the throne where once the Caesars sate.

There wandering heedless of the mighty dead,

Monastic feet on Cato’s ashes tread,

On God’s own altar there the throne they raise,

And one despotic hand the cross and sceptre sways.

There first His infant Church the Almighty placed,

By turns with zeal rejected, or embraced;

There heaven’s high will His first apostle taught,

In native truth and singleness of thought.

Scarce meaner praise his successors acquired,

And they were honoured most, who least aspired;

No foppery then their modest brow adorned,

All praise but virtue, and all wealth they scorned,

And flew with rapture from their low abode,

To die triumphant in the cause of God.

Depraved at length they scorned their humble state,

Ambition then profaned the sacred shrine

And human power was grafted on divine;

The lurking dagger and the poisoning bowl

Were the dark basis of their new control.

Vicegerents of the Lord, His holy place

With brutal lust they blushed not to disgrace,

Till Rome, oppressed beneath their hateful reign,

Sighed for her idol gods and pagan rites again.

A wiser race more modern times beheld,

Who crimes like these or wrought not or concealed:

Then kings appealed to Rome’s decisive power,

And chose their umpire, whom they feared before;

Humility once more and meekness shone

Renewed, beneath the proud pontific crown.

But pious fraud and priestcraft in these days

Are Rome’s chief virtue, and her worthiest praise.

Now in the pomp of apostolic state

Supreme, and crowned with empire, Sixtus sate; [35]

If fraud and churlish insolence might claim

Renown, no monarch bore a fairer name.

Long time he skulked beneath the driveller’s part

Disguised, and owed his greatness to his art;

Long seemed unworthy what he sighed to gain,

And shunned it long the surer to obtain.

Deep in his palace, secret and unseen,

Dwelt dark-veiled Policy, mysterious queen;

Unsocial interest and ambition joined

Of yore, to spawn this pelt of humankind.

Her smiles a free, untroubled soul expressed,

Though cares unnumbered swarmed within her breast;

Keen were her haggard eyes, nor knew to close

Their wakeful lids, nor would admit repose;

Thick woven films o’er Europe’s sight she spreads,

Confounds her counsels, and her kings misleads;

Calls truth itself to testify a fraud,

And stamps imposture with the seal of God.

When first the phantom Discord met her view,

With instant rapture to her arms she flew;

Then smiled a ghastly grin, but sighing soon,

As one o’erwhelmed with sorrow, thus begun:

“I see, alas! those happy times no more,

When thoughtless multitudes adored my power,

When Europe credulous obeyed my laws,

And mixed with mine religion’s sacred cause.

I spoke, and kings from their exalted seat

Came trembling down, and worshipped at my feet;

High on the echoing Vatican I stood,

And breathed my wars, and launched my storms abroad.

Even life and death confessed my proud domain,

And monarchs reigned by me, or ceased to reign.

Now France subdues my lightnings e’er they fly, [36]

And quenched and smothered, in my grasp they die.

Religion’s friend, she thwarts my slighted arms,

And breaks my philtres, and dispels my charms;

Truth’s borrowed guise in vain did I display,

She first discerned, and tore the mask away.

But oh! what joy could I delude her now,

At last avenge my sufferings on my foe.

Come then! my lightnings with thy torch restore,

And France shall feel us, and the world once more;

Our bonds again, earth’s haughty lords shall wear,

Again”—she spoke, and pierced by yielding air.

Remote from Rome, where vanity and pride

In temples sacred to themselves reside,

Concealed from sight, within her humble cell,

Religion, pensive maid, delights to dwell.

There angels hover round her calm abode,

And waft her raptures to the throne of God.

Meanwhile, the sanction of her injured name

The oppressor’s wrong and tyrant’s fury claim;

Yet doomed to suffer, no revenge she knows,

But melts in silent blessings on her foes.

Her artless charms their modest lustre shroud

Forever from the vain tumultuous crowd,

Who without faith their impious vows prefer,

And pray to fortune, while they kneel to her.

In Henry she beheld her future son,

And knew the fates had marked him for her own,

With sighs to speed the destined hour she strove,

And viewed and watched him with a seraph’s love.

Sudden the fiends their awful foe surprise; [37]

The captive lifts to heaven her streaming eyes;

In vain—for heaven to prove her virtue sure

And steadfast faith, resigns her to their power.

Soon in her snowy veil and holy weeds

The monsters muffle their detested heads,

Then fired with hope, and glorying in their might,

Stretch swift to Paris their impetuous flight.

Deep in the Sorbonne, in august debate,

The sage expounders of heaven’s dictates sate.

Their faith unshaken, loyalty unfeigned,

The judges and the examples of the land;

Swayed by no error, by no fear controlled,

Each bore an upright heart, was masculine and bold.

Alas! what human virtue never errs—

Behold the tempter! Policy appears;

Smooth was the melting flattery of her tongue,

And on her artful lips persuasion hung.

The dazzling mitre and the sweeping train,

With ease allure the ambitious and the vain;

With secret bribes the miser’s voice she buys,

With decent praise, the learned and the wise;

From each his virtue by some art she stole,

And shook with sounding threats the coward’s soul.

Their counsels now with riot they disgrace,

Truth heard the din alarmed, and fled the place.

When thus a sage the general voice expressed,

“Kings are the creatures of the Church confessed;

Chastised or pardoned as her laws decree,

That Church, and guardians of those laws, are we;

Annulled and cancelled are the vows we swore;

Such is our will, and Valois reigns no more.” [38]

Scarce was the cursed decree pronounced aloud,

When ruthless Discord copied it in blood,

And signed and sworn the fatal record stood.

Then swift from church to church, with eager speed

The fiend divulges their adventurous deed;

Where’er she came her saintly garb bespoke

Esteem, and sage and holy was her look.

Forth from their gloomy cells, she calls amain

The meagre slaves of voluntary pain;

“Behold in me religion’s self,” she cries,

“Assert my rights, and let your zeal arise,

‘Tis I approach you, ‘tis my voice you hear,

For proof, mark well the flaming sword I bear,

Of tempered lightning is that edge divine,

And God’s own hand intrusted it to mine.

Emerge, my children! from this silent gloom,

The time for action now and high exploit is come.

Go forth, and teach the lukewarm wavering crowd,

To slay their king if they would serve their God.

Think how the ministry by special grace

Was given of old to Levi’s holy race;

Jehovah’s self pronounced that glory due

To their deserts, when Israel’s sons they slew.

Where are, alas! those times of triumph fled,

When by the brothers’ arm the victim bled?

Ye priests devout, your spirit was their guide,

‘Twas by your hands alone Coligny died;

‘Twas then the slaughter raged, go forth, explain

My voice abroad, and let it rage again.”

She spoke, and waved the signal; every heart

Throbbed with the poison of the beldam’s art.

To Paris next their solemn march she led,

High o’er the midst the bannered cross was spread, [39]

And hymns and holy songs they chanted loud,

As heaven itself their impious cause avowed.

Even on their knees their frenzy they declare,

And mix a pious curse in every prayer:

Bold in the pulpit, timorous in the field,

With uncouth arm the ponderous sword they wield,

Their penitential shirts the zealots hide

Beneath their cankered armour’s clumsy pride;

And thus the inglorious band in foul array

Through tides of gazing rabble sped their way,

While high in effigy portrayed they bore

Their God, the God of peace, their crazy troop before.

Mayenne with the pomp of public praise adorned

Their wild attempt, which in his heart he scorned.

For well he knew fanatic rage would pass

For sound religion with the common class,

Nor wanted he the princely craft, to court

And soothe the follies of the meaner sort.

The soldier laughed, the sage with frowns surveyed

Their antic pageantry and mad parade,

The many rend the skies with loud applause,

And hail the reverend bulwarks of their cause.

Their daring rashness first to fear gave way,

And frenzy now succeeds to their dismay.

The spirit thus that rules the obedient main,

Can lull the waves to rest, or wake the storm again.

Now Discord from the tribe of Valois’s foes,

Twice eight, the rankest of the faction chose, [40]

Slaves of the queen, who yet presumed to guide

The car of state, like monarchs, at her side,

While pride and perfidy, revenge and death,

With streams of slaughter marked the road beneath.

Mayenne blushed to see the paltry minions stand

So near himself, his equals in command,

But fellowship in guilt all rank destroys, [41]

As great the wretch who serves, as who employs.

So when the winds, fierce tyrants of the deep,

The Seine or Rhone with rapid fury sweep,

Black rises from below the stagnant mud,

And stains the silver surface of the flood.

So when the flames some destined town invade,

And on the plain the smoking towers are spread,

The mingling metals in one mass are rolled,

And worthless dross incrusts the purest gold.

Themis alone uninfluenced by their crimes,

Escapes the foul contagion of the times;

With her, nor hope of power nor fear prevail,

But still well-poised she trimmed the steady scale,

No spots the lustre of her shrine impair,

But justice finds a sacred refuge there.

There, foes to vice, and equity their guide,

An awful senate o’er the laws preside,

With patriot candour watchful to secure

The people’s privilege and monarch’s power;

True to the crown, yet anxious for the State,

Tyrants alike and rebels are their hate;

Firm their allegiance still, though free and brave,

They scorn to sink the subject to the slave,

Rome and the Roman power full well they know,

Know to respect it, and to curb it, too.

Chosen from the League, furious troops beset

The portal, and invade the still retreat;

Bussy, than whom no chief might better claim [42]

That bad pre-eminence, their leader came,

And thus the ruffian, proud of the command

He bore, bespoke the venerable band:

“Ye, who for pay the law’s vile drudgery bear,

And doze, and dream, plebeians as you are,

Of kings committed to your guardian care,

Yet still when public feuds and broils prevail,

Set the mean trappings of your rank to sale,

Timorous in war, in peace a blustering train,

Hear what your lords, the commonwealth, ordain.

Societies were formed ere kings were made,

We claim the rights our ancestors betrayed,

The people whom your arts enslaved before,

Discern the cheat, and will be slaves no more.

Truce with the pomp of titles then, away

With every sound of arbitrary sway,

Draw from the people’s rights your power alone,

Friends of the State, nor bondsmen of the throne.”

He spoke, and scorn appeared in every eye,

Nor censure else vouchsafed they, or reply.

So when of old within her ruined wall

Rome in dismay received the conquering Gaul,

Undaunted still her awful senate sate,

Calm as in peace, nor trembled at their fate.

“Tyrants,” he cried with fury, “though not free

From secret dread, obey or follow me.”

Then famed for worth and fearless of his foes,

Their honoured chief, illustrious Harlay rose,

And claimed his fetters with so stern a tone,

As for their hands he sought them, not his own.

At once his hoary brethren of the laws,

Ambitious victims in the royal cause,

And proud to share their Harlay’s glorious pains,

With outstretched arms received the traitor’s chains.

The gathering multitude around them roars,

And crowds attend them to those dreary towers,

Where vengeance, undistinguishing in blood,

Too oft confounds the guilty and the good.

Thus sinks the State beneath their lawless power,

The Sorbonne’s fallen, the senate is no more.

But why this throng? that universal yell?

The fatal scaffold, and the torturing wheel?

Say for whose punishment this pomp’s designed?

For theirs—the first, the noblest of mankind. [43]

So fare the just in Paris, such reward

For patriots here, and heroes is prepared.

Yet hapless sufferers, no disgrace invades

Your honest fame, nor blush your injured shades,

Your fate was glorious, and whoe’er like you

Dies for his king, shall die with glory, too.

O’erjoyed meanwhile, and revelling in blood,

Amidst her bands triumphant Discord stood,

Self-satisfied, with well-contented air,

She saw the dire effects of civil war,

Saw thousands leagued against their monarch’s life,

Yet even themselves divided and at strife,

Dupes of her power, and servants of her hate,

Push the mad war, and urge their country’s fate,

Tumult within, and danger all without,

While havoc smote the realm, and marched it round about.

CANTO V.

THE ARGUMENT.

The besieged are very sharply pressed. Discord persuades Clément to go to Paris and assassinate the king. He is conducted by Fanaticism, whom Discord calls for that purpose from the infernal regions. Sacrifice of the Leaguers to the spirits of darkness. Henry III. is assassinated. Sentiments of Henry IV. upon the occasion. He is acknowledged king of France by the army.

Now marching on, those dread machines appeared,

Which death attended, and the rebels feared.

A hundred mouths poured forth the rapid balls,

And iron tempests rattled on the walls.

Now was employed, and exercised in vain

The zeal of party, and the wiles of Mayenne.

The guards of Paris, and the noisy crowd,

The prating doctors insolent, and loud,

Tried, but in vain, our hero to subdue,

Beneath whose feet victorious laurels grew.

By Rome and Philip were the thunders hurled,

But Rome diffused no terrors through the world.

His native sloth the old Iberian showed

And all his succours were too late bestowed.

Through Gallia’s realms the plundering troops enjoyed

The spoils of cities which their arms destroyed.

An easy conquest o’er oppressed allies

Was first and fairest in the traitor’s eyes.

The falling League but waited to receive

Whate’er the pride of tyranny could give,

When fate, that governs with supreme command,

Appeared suspended by a zealot’s hand.

Forgive, ye citizens, whose peaceful days

Are calm, and brightened by serener rays,

Forgive the bard who paints the horrid crimes

That stained the annals of preceding times.

Yourselves unsullied may the lays approve,

Whose hearts are warm with loyalty and love.

In every age, some venerable seer

For heaven’s pure joys has shed the pious tear;

Some rigid anchorets with vows divine

Have heaped their incense on religion’s shrine.

Lost to the world, to each idea lost

That friendship loves, or charity can boast,

Their gloomy shades and cloisters ever rude

The beams of fair humanity exclude.

Others in flowing periods have displayed

Religion’s truths by learning’s powerful aid.

In these ambition has produced desires

Mean and unworthy virtue’s sacred fires.

Oft have their schemes extended far and wide,

And all their piety been sunk in pride.

Thus by perverse, untoward abuses still

The highest good becomes the greatest ill.

Those, who the life of Dominic embraced,

In Spain with wreaths of glory have been graced,

From mean employments have with lustre shone,

Like painted insects glittering round the throne.

In France they flourished in the days of yore,

With equal zeal, but far unequal power.

The kindly patronage, from kings derived,

Might still attend them, had not Clément lived.

The soul of Clément, gloomy and austere,

Was formed to virtues rigid, and severe.

Soon as the torrent of rebellion flowed,

The tide he followed and pronounced it good.

Fell Discord rising had profusely shed

Infernal poisons o’er his youthful head.

The long-drawn aisle and venerable shrine

Witness what prayers fatigued the powers divine.

This was their form, before the throne of grace,

Whilst dust and ashes sanctified his face:

“Almighty Being, whose avenging arm

Protects religion, and her sons from harm,

How long shall justice sleep, or tyrants live,

The perjured flourish, and oppression thrive?

Let us, O God, Thy gracious mercies tell,

Thy fiery scourges let the sinner feel.

Dispel death’s horrid gloom, assist the brave,

And crush the tyrant, whom Thy fury gave.

Send Thy destroying angel from above,

Descend in flames, and let Thy thunders move.

Descend and quell the sacrilegious host,

Defeat their triumphs, and confound their boast.

Let ruin seize, great sovereign Lord of all,

Kings, chiefs, and armies in one common fall,

As gathering storms the leaves of autumn bear

O’er hills and valleys through the fields of air.

The League shall praise Thy name with holy tongue,

Whilst blood and murder elevate the song.”

Discord, attentive, heard his hideous cries,

And swift to Pluto’s dreary regions flies.

From those dark realms the worst of tyrants came,

Fanatic Demon is his horrid name.

Religion’s son, but rebel in her cause,

He tears her bosom, and disdains her laws.

’Twas he that guided Ammon’s frantic race,

Where silver Arnon winds his liquid maze.

When weeping mothers, with mad zeal possessed,

Slew their fond infants clinging to the breast.

Through him rash Jephthah vowed, the fiend imbrued

The father’s dagger in the daughter’s blood.

By him the impious Chalchas was inspired,

And tender Iphigenia’s death required.

Thy forests, France, the cruel power approved;

There smoked the incense which Tentates loved.

Thy shades have seen the human victims bleed,

While hoary druids authorized the deed.

From Rome’s proud capitol he gave the word,

When Christians shuddered at the pagan sword.

When Rome submitted to the Son of God,

High o’er the church he waved his iron rod.

Christians, once doomed to feel the flickering flame,

Were deaf to mercy, and unmoved by shame.

On Thames’s banks the seeds of faction grew,

Whose bloody arm the feeble monarch slew.

The same fierce genius fans the annual fire

At Lisbon, or Madrid, when Jews expire,

Unwilling to desert the cause of heaven,

Or quit the faith their ancestors have given.

Like some high priest his part the demon played,

In the pure vest of innocence arrayed.

Now, from the wardrobe of eternal night

For other crimes equipped, he sprang to light.

Deceit, forever plausible and fair,

Dressed him like Guise in person, height, and air,

The haughty Guise, whose artifice alone

Enchained the listless monarch on his throne,

Whose power still working, like some fatal star,

Foreboded ruin, and inspired to war.

The dreaded helmet glittered on his head;

The sword, prepared for every murderous deed,

Flamed in his hand—and many a wound could tell

How once at Blois the factious hero fell.

For vengeance calling loud, the crimson tide

Fast flowed in copious streams adown his side.

Clad in this mournful garb, when night had shed

Her peaceful slumbers over Clement’s head,

In that still hour, when horrid spectres meet,

He sought the zealot in his calm retreat.

Cabal, and superstition, nurse of sin,

Unbarred the doors, and let the chieftain in.

“Thy prayers,” he cried, “the powers of heaven receive,

But more than tears or prayers should Clement give.

The Leaguer’s God will other offerings claim;

More fit, more worthy of His holy name.

Far other incense must adorn His shrine;

Offerings more pure, and worship more divine.

Had Judith only wept with plaintive sighs,

A female’s grief, and unavailing cries,

Had life been dearer than her country’s call,

Judith had seen Bethulia’s levelled wall.

These exploits copy, these oblations bring,

Derive thy currents from that sacred spring.

I see thee blush—go, fly at my command,

Let royal blood now consecrate thy hand.

Set wretched Paris from her tyrant free,

Avenging Rome, the universe, and me.

Go, murder Valois, as he murdered Guise,

Nor deem it faulty in religion’s eyes.

Who guards the Church, and vindicates her laws,

Is bravely acting in fair virtue’s cause.

When heaven commands, then every deed is good,

Attend her accents, and prepare for blood.

Thrice happy, couldst thou join the tyrant’s death

To Bourbon’s fall, and gain a nobler wreath!

Oh, could thy citizens!—but fate denies

Thy hand the honours of that happy prize.

Yet, should thy fame with rays inferior shine,

Scorn not the gift, but finish heaven’s design.”

Thus spoke the phantom, and unsheathed the blade,

By hatred once in Stygian waters laid.

To Clement’s hand he gave the fatal steel,

Then swiftly fled, and downward sank to hell.

The young recluse, too easily deceived,

Himself the Almighty’s delegate believed:

Embraced the gift with reverential love,

And begged assistance from the powers above.

The fiend no superstitious influence spared,

But all his soul for parricide prepared.

How apt is error to mislead mankind!

And reason’s piercing eye how often blind!

The raging Clement, happy, and at ease,

Happy as those whom truth and virtue please;

With downcast looks, and virtue’s clouded brow,

To heaven addressed the sacrilegious vow.

On as he marched, his penitential veil

Concealed from view the parricidal steel.

The fairest flowers each conscious friend bestowed,

And balmy odours to perfume the road.

These guides, in counsel or in praises, joined

To add new fervour to his zealous mind.

The holy calendar received his name,

Equal to saints in virtue, and in fame,

Now hailed as patron, now adored as God,

And fed with incense by the kneeling crowd.

Transports less warm, less moving raptures fired

The Christian heroes, and their souls inspired,

When pious brethren were consigned to death,

Firm, and intrepid to their latest breath.

They kissed each footstep, thought each torture gain,

And wished to feel the agonizing pain.

Fanatics thus religion’s ensigns bear,

Like worthies triumph, and like saints appear.

The same desire the good and impious draws,

Unnumbered martyrs fall in error’s cause.

Mayenne’s piercing eyes beheld the future blow,

And more was known, than what he seemed to know.

Intending wisely, when the blood was spilt,

To reap the profits, but avoid the guilt.

Sedition’s sons were left to guide the whole,

And steel with rage the impious zealot’s soul.

To Paris’ gates they lead the traitor on;

While the Sixteen with fond impatience run

To arts infernal, and devoutly pray

That heaven her secret counsels would display.

This science once distinguished Catherine’s reign,

Though always criminal, and often vain.

The servile people, that forever love

Each courtly vice, and what the great approve,

Fond of whate’er is marvellous or new,

The same impieties with zeal pursue.

When night’s still shades concealed the bands impure,

Silence conducts them to a vault obscure.

By the pale torch, which faintly pierced the gloom,

They raise an altar on the mouldering tomb.

There both the royal images appear,

Alike the objects of their rage and fear.

There to Almighty power their vows are paid,

And hellish demons summoned to their aid.

High on the walls, a hundred lances stood,

Mysterious, awful terrors! plunged in blood.

Their priest was one of that unhappy race

Proscribed on earth, and sentenced to disgrace,

Slaves long inured to superstition’s lore,

Whose crimes and sorrows spread from shore to shore.

The Leaguers next the sacrifice begin

With horrid cries, and bacchanalian din:

Now bathe their arms within the crimson tide;

Now on the altar strike at Valois’s side.

Now with more rage, the terror to complete,

See Henry’s image trod beneath their feet.

Death, as they thought, would aid the impious blow,

And send the heroes to the shades below.

The Hebrew tried by blasphemy to move

The depths beneath, and all the powers above;

Invoked the spirits that in ether dwell,

Swift lightnings, thunders, and the flames of hell.

Endor’s famed priestess erst such offerings made,

And raised by dire enchantments Samuel’s shade;

Thus in Samaria once ’gainst Judah hung

The lying accent on the prophet’s tongue;

And thus inflexibly Ateius rose

The high designs of Crassus to oppose.

The League’s mad ruler waited to receive

To charms and spells what answer heaven would give,

Convinced that vows, thus offered, wing their way

To the pure regions of eternal day.

Heaven heard the magic sounds, which only drew

From thence the vengeance to their errors due.

For them were stopped the laws which nature gave,

And plaintive murmurs filled the silent cave.

Successive lightnings in the depth of night

Flashed all around and gleamed with horrid light.

Great Henry shone amidst the lambent flames,

Encircled round with glory’s golden beams.

High on the car of triumph as he rode,

Grace on his brow the laurel wreath bestowed,

The royal sceptre glittered in his hand,

Emblem of power, and ensign of command.

Loud rolling thunders gave the fatal sign,

And opening earth received the flaming shrine.

The priest and Leaguers shuddered at the sight,

And veiled their crimes beneath the shades of night.

The rolling thunders and the fiery blaze

Declared that God had numbered Valois’s days.

Grim death rejoiced; and, such the Almighty’s will,

Crimes were allowed His sentence to fulfil.

Now Clement to the royal tent drew near,

And begged admission undismayed by fear.

For heaven, he said, had sent him to bestow

Reviving honours on the monarch’s brow;

And secrets to unfold, which might appear

Worthy reception from his sovereign’s ear.

All mark his looks, and many a question ask

Lest his attire some bad design should mask.

He undisturbed, with calm and simple air

Returns them answers plausible and fair.

Each accent seems from innocence to spring.

The guards attend, and lead him to their king.

Calm as before, he bent the suppliant knee;

Unruffled, and unawed by majesty:

Marked where to strike, and thus, by falsehood’s’ aid,

With treacherous lies his feigned addresses paid:

“Pardon, dread sovereign, him who trembling brings

Submissive praises to the king of kings.

Oh, let me thank kind heaven, whose gracious aid

Has showered down blessings on thy sacred head.

Potier the good, and Villerois the sage

Have faithful proved in this rebellious age.

Harlay the great, whose brave, intrepid zeal

Was ever active in the public weal,

Immured in prison, still thy cause defends,

Confounds the League, and animates thy friends.

“That mighty Being, whose all-piercing eyes

Defeat the counsels of the great and wise:

Whose will no human knowledge can withstand,

Whose works are finished by the weakest hand:

To Harlay guided thy devoted slave,

That loyal subject ever good and brave.

His sage advice and sentiments refined

Diffused a radiance o’er my clouded mind.

To bring these lines with eagerness I flew,

By Harlay counselled, and to Valois true.”

The king received the letters with surprise,

And tears of holy rapture filled his eyes.

“Oh, when,” he cried, “shall Valois’s hand supply

Rewards proportioned to thy loyalty?”

Thus spoke the monarch with affection warm,

Love undissembled, and extended arm.

Each motion well the monstrous traitor eyed,

And fiercely plunged the dagger in his side.

Soon as they saw the crimson torrents flow,

A thousand hands revenged the fatal blow.

The zealot wished not for a happier time,

But stood unmoved, and triumphed in his crime.

Through opening skies, he saw the heavenly dome,

And endless glories in the world to come;

Claimed the bright wreath of martyrdom from God,

And falling, blessed the hand that shed his blood.

Oh, dread illusion, terrible and blind,

Worthy the hate and pity of mankind.

Infectious preachers more deserved the blame,

From whom the madness and the poison came.

The hour arrived when Valois’s darkened sight

Faintly beheld the parting, glimmering light.

Surrounding slaves with many a falling tear

Expressed their griefs dissembled or sincere.

For some there were, whose sorrows soon expired,

With pleasing hopes of future greatness fired.

Others, whose safety with the king was fled,

Themselves lamented, not the royal dead.

Amidst the various sounds of plaintive cries

Tears unaffected flowed from Henry’s eyes.

Thy foe, great Bourbon, fell; but souls like thine

In such dread moments every thought resign,

Save those which friendship and compassion claim:

Self-love destroys not the celestial flame.

The generous chief forgot his own renown,

Though to himself devolved the regal crown.

To raise his eyes the dying monarch strove,

And clasped his hand with tenderness and love.

“Bourbon,” he cried, “thy generous tears refrain,

Let others weep whose conduct I disdain.

Fly thou to vengeance, spread the dire alarm,

Go reign, and triumph with victorious arm.

I leave thee struggling on the stormy coast

Where shipwrecked Valois was forever lost.

My throne awaits thee, take it as thy due,

Its sole protection was derived from you.

Eternal thunders threaten Gallia’s kings,

Then fear the power from whom the glory springs.

By thee, from impious tenets undeceived,

Be all the honours of His shrine revived.

Farewell, brave prince, and reign by all adored,

Guarded by heaven from each assassin’s sword.

You know the League, with us begins the blow,

Nor stays its fury, but would end with you.

In future days perchance some barbarous hand,

Obedient slave to faction’s dread command,

Some arm—but oh! ye guardian angels, spare

Virtues so pure, so exquisite, and rare.

Permit”—no more he said; departing breath

Consigned the monarch to the arms of death.

Now was all Paris filled with joyful cries,

And odious songs of triumph rent the skies.

The fanes are opened wide at Valois’s death,

And every Leaguer wears the flowery wreath.

All labour ends while faction blithe and gay,

To mirth and feasting consecrates the day.

Bourbon appeared the object of their sport,

And glorious valour seemed his sole support.

Say, could he rise, and e’er resist again

The strengthened League, the angry Church, and Spain,

The Roman thunders with such fury hurled,

And the bright treasures of the western world?

Some warlike few, who little understood

What most contributes to the public good,

Affecting scruples foolish and refined,

Calvin’s defence already had resigned.

Redoubled ardour in the royal cause

The rest inflamed, and ruled by other laws.

These generous soldiers, well approved in war,

Who long had rode on triumph’s radiant car,

To Bourbon give unsettled Gallia’s throne,

And all proclaim him worthy of the crown.

Those valiant knights, the Givris, and Daumonts,

The Montmorencys, Sancis, and Crillons,

Swear to remain inviolable friends,

And guard his person to earth’s utmost ends.

True to their laws, and faithful to their God,

They boldly march where honour points the road.

“From you, my friends,” cried Bourbon, “is derived

That lot which kindred heroes have received.

No peers have authorized our high command,

No holy oil, or consecrating hand.

All due allegiance, in the days of yore,

Your brave forefathers on their bucklers swore.

To victory’s laurelled field your hands confined

From there send forth the monarchs of mankind.”

Thus spoke the chief, and, marching first, prepared

By martial deeds to merit his reward.

CANTO VI.

THE ARGUMENT.

After the death of Henry III., the Leaguers assemble in Paris to elect a king. In the midst of their debates, Henry IV. storms the city. The assembly is dismissed. The members that composed it repair to the ramparts. Description of the ensuing battle.

In France an ancient custom we retain,

When death’s rude stroke has closed the monarch’s reign,

When destiny cuts short the smooth descent,

And all the royal pedigree is spent,

The people to their former rights restored,

May change the laws or choose their future lord.

The states in council represent the whole,

Elect the king, and limit his control;

Thus our renowned forefathers did ordain

That Capet should succeed to Charlemagne.

The League with vain presumption arrogates

This right, and hastens to convene the states.

They thought the murder of the king bestowed

That power perhaps, on those who shed his blood,

Thought that the semblance of a throne would shroud

Their dark designs, and captivate the crowd,

Would help their jarring counsels to unite,

And give their foul pretence an air of right;

That from what source soe’er his claim may spring,

Just or unjust, a king is still a king,

And worthy or unworthy of the sway,

A Frenchman must have something to obey.

Swift to the Louvre with imperious air

And fierce demeanour the proud chiefs repair;

Thither whom Spain ambassador had sent,

And Rome, with many a priestly bigot went,

To speed the election with tumultuous haste,

An insult on the kings of ages past,

And in the splendour of their trains, expense

Was seen, the child of public indigence.

No princely potentate or high-born peer

Sprung from our old nobility, was there,

Their grandeur now a shadowy form alone,

Though lawgivers by birth and kinsmen of the throne.

No sage assertors of the public claim,

Strenuous and hardy, from the commons came,

No lilies as of old the court arrayed,

But foreign pomp and pageant in their stead.

There sumptuous o’er the throne for Mayenne prepared,

A canopy of royal state was reared,

And on the front with rich embroidery graced,

Oh, dire indignity! these lines were traced.

“Kings of the earth, and judges of mankind,

Who deaf to mercy, by no laws confined,

Lay nature waste beneath your fierce domain,

Let Valois’ fate instruct you how to reign.”

Forthwith contentious rage with jarring sound,

And clamorous strife discordant echo round.

Slave to the smiles of Rome, obsequious here

A venal flatterer soothes the legate’s ear;

“’Tis time,” he cries, “the lily should bow down

Her head, obedient to the triple crown,

Time that the Church should lift her chastening hand,

And from her high tribunal scourge the land.” [44]

Cruel tribunal! scene of monkish power,

Which even the realms that suffer it, abhor;

Whose fiery priests by bigotry prepared,

Torture and death without remorse award,

Disgraceful to the sacred cause they guard;

As if mankind were, as of old, possessed

With pagan blindness, when the lying priest

To appease the wrath of heaven with vengeance fired,

The sacrifice of human blood required.

Some for Iberian gold betray the State,

And sell it to the Spaniard whom they hate.

But mightier than the rest, their power was shown,

Who destined Mayenne already to the throne.

The splendour of a crown was wanting yet,

To make the fullness of his fame complete;

To that bright goal his daring wish he sends,

Nor heeds the danger that on kings attends.

Then Potier rose; plain, nervous and untaught

His eloquence, the language of his thought.

No blemish of the times had touched the sage,

Revered for virtue in a vicious age;

Oft had he checked, with courage uncontrolled,

The tide of faction headlong as it rolled,

Asserted hardily the laws he loved,

Nor ever feared reproof, or was reproved.

He raised his voice; struck silent at the sound

The crowd was hushed, and listening gathered round.

So when at sea the winds have ceased to roar,

And the loud sailor’s cries are heard no more,

No sound survives, but of the dashing prow

That cleaves with prosperous course the obedient wave below.

Such Potier seemed; no rude disturbance broke

The attentive calm, while freely thus he spoke:

“Mayenne, I perceive then, has the general voice;

And though I praise not, can excuse your choice;

His virtues I esteem not less than you,

And were I free to choose, might choose him, too.

But if the laws ambitious he pervert,

His claim of empire cancels his desert.”

Thus far the sage; when lo! that instant Mayenne

Himself appeared, with all a monarch’s train.

“Prince!” he pursued, and spoke it boldly forth,

“I dare oppose you, for I know your worth;

Dare step between your merit and the throne,

Warm in the cause of France, and in our own.

Vain your election were, your right unsound,

While yet in France a Bourbon may be found;

Heaven in its wisdom placed you near the throne,

That you might guard but not usurp the crown;

His ashes sprinkled with a monarch’s gore

The shade of injured Guise can ask no more;

Point not your vengeance then at Henry’s head,

Nor charge him with the blood he never shed.

Heaven’s influence on you both too largely flows,

And ‘tis your rival virtue makes you foes.

But hark! the clamour of the common herd

Ascends the skies, and heretic’s the word;

And see the priesthood ranged in dark array,

To deeds of blood insatiate urge their way!

Barbarians, hold—what custom yet unknown,

What law, or rather frenzy of your own,

Can cancel your allegiance to the throne?

Comes he, this Henry, savage and unjust,

To o’erthrow your shrines, and mix them with the dust?

He, to those shrines in search of truth he flies,

And loves the sacred laws yourselves despise;

Virtue alone, whatever form she wears,

Whatever sect she graces he reveres;

Nor like yourselves, weak, arrogant and blind,

Dares do the work of God, and judge mankind;

More righteous and more Christian far than you,

He comes to rule, but to forgive you, too.

And shall you judge your master, and shall he,

The friend of freedom, not himself be free?

Not such, alas! nor sullied with your crimes,

Were the true Christian race of elder times;

They, though all heathen errors they abhorred,

Served without murmuring their heathen lord,

The doom of death without a groan obeyed,

And blessed the cruel hand by which they bled:

Such are the Christians whom true faith assures,

They died to serve their kings, you murder yours,

And God, whom you describe forever prone

To wrath, if He delights to shower it down

On guilty heads, shall aim it at your own.”

He closed his bold harangue, confusion scared

Their conscious souls, none answered him, or dared;

In vain they would have shaken from their hearts,

The dread which truth to guiltiness imparts,

With fear and rage their troubled thoughts were tossed,

When suddenly a shout from all their host

Was heard: “To arms! to arms! or we are lost.”

Dark clouds of dust in floating volumes rise

Wide o’er the champaign, and obscure the skies;

The clarion and the drum with horrid sound,

Dread harbingers of slaughter echo round.

So from his gloomy chambers in the North,

When the fierce spirit of the storm breaks forth,

His dusky pinions shroud the noon-day light,

And thunder and sharp winds attend his dreary flight.

’Twas Henry’s host came shouting from afar,

Disdaining ease, and eager for the war;

O’er the wide plain they stretched their bright array,

And to the ramparts urged their furious way.

These hours the chief vouchsafed not to consume

In empty rites performed at Valois’ tomb,

Unprofitable tribute! fondly paid

By the proud living to the unconscious dead;

No lofty dome, nor monumental pile,

On the waste shore he raised with fruitless toil,

Vain arts! to rescue the departed great,

From the rough tooth of time and rage of fate;

A nobler meed on Valois’ shade below,

And worthier gifts he hastened to bestow,

To avenge his murder, make rebellion cease,

And rule the subjugated land in peace.

The din of battle gathering at their gates,

Dissolved their council, and dispersed the states.

Swift from the walls to view the advancing host

The general flew, the soldier to his post,

With shouts the approaching hero they incense,

And all is ripe for onset and defence.

Though pleasure now, and peace securely reign

In all her courts, not such was Paris then,

But girt with massy walls, and unexposed,

An hundred forts the narrower town inclosed;

The suburbs now defenceless and unbarred,

The gentle hand of peace their only guard,

Adorned with all the pomp that wealth supplies,

Proud spires and palaces that pierce the skies,

Were then a cluster of rude huts alone,

A rampart all around of earth was thrown,

With a deep foss to part them from the town.

From the east the mighty chief his march began,

And death with hasty strides came foremost in his van.

Winged with red flames impetuous from on high

And from below, the showery bullets fly,

The rattling storm resistless thickens round,

And tumbles tower and bastion to the ground;

Gored and defaced the gay battalions bleed,

And on the plain their shattered limbs are spread.

In earlier times, unaided and untaught,

His fate by simpler means the soldier wrought;

Strength against strength opposed the contest tried,

And on their swords alone the combatants relied;

More cruel wars their children learned to wage,

Nor less than lightning satisfied their rage.

Then first was heard the thunder-bearing bomb,

Imprisoned mischief struggling in its womb,

Swift on the destined mark the ponderous shell

Came down, and spread destruction where it fell.

Next, dire improvement on the barbarous trade,

In hollow vaults the secret mine was laid;

In vain the warrior trusting in his might,

Speeds his bold march, and seeks the promised fight,

A sudden blast divides the yawning earth,

And the black vapour kindles into birth,

Smote by strange thunder sinks the astonished host,

Deep in the dark abyss forever lost.

These dangers Bourbon unappalled defies,

Impatient for the strife, a throne the prize.

Where’er his hardy bands the hero leads,

’Tis hell beneath, and tempest o’er their heads,

His glorious steps, undaunted they pursue,

Fired by his deeds still brightening in their view.

Grave in the midst the valiant Mornay went,

Though slow his march, intrepid his intent;

Rage he alike disdained and slavish dread,

Nor heard the thunders bursting round his head;

War was heaven’s scourge on man, he wisely thought,

Nor loved the task, but took it as his lot;

Even for the wonders of his sword he grieved,

And loathed it for the glories it achieved.

Now poured their legions down the dreadful way,

Where smeared with blood the sloping glacis lay;

More fierce as more in danger, with the slain

They choke the foss, and lift it to the plain,

Then borne upon the supple numbers, reach

The ramparts, and rush headlong to the breach.

Waving his bloody falchion, Henry led

The way, and entered furious at their head.

Already fixed by his victorious hand

High on the walls his glittering banners stand:

Awe-struck the Leaguers seemed, as they implored

The conqueror’s mercy, and confessed their lord;

But Mayenne recalls them to their guilty part,

And drives the dawning grace from every heart,

Till crowded in close phalanx, they beset

Their king, whose eye their hardiest feared to meet.

Fierce on the battlements, and bathed in blood

Of thousands slain, the fury Discord stood;

There best her horrid mandates they obey,

And joined in closer fight more surely slay.

Sudden the deep-mouthed engines cease to roar,

And the loud thunder of the war is o’er:

At once a universal silence round,

With awful pause, succeeds the deafening sound;

Now through his foes the soldier cleaves his way,

And on the sword alone depends the day;

Alternate the contending leaders boast

The bloody ramparts won, and yield them lost:

Still victory the doubtful balance swayed,

And joined in air the mingling banners played,

Till oft triumphant, and as oft subdued,

Fled the pale League, and Henry swift pursued.

’Tis thus the restless billows wash the shore,

By turns o’erwhelm it, and by turns restore.

Then most in that tremendous hour was shown,

The might of Bourbon’s rival, and his own;

‘Twas then each hero’s warlike soul was proved,

That in the shock of charging hosts unmoved,

Amidst confusion, horror and despair,

Ranged the dread scene and ruled the doubtful war.

Meanwhile renowned for many a martial deed,

A gallant English band brave Essex led,

In Gallia’s cause with wonder they advance,

And scarcely can believe they fight for France.

On the same ramparts where the conquered Seine,

Saw in old time their great forefathers reign,

For England’s sake they wage the mortal strife,

Proud to enhance her fame, and prodigal of life.

Impetuous Essex first the breach ascends,

Where fierce d’Aumale the crowded pass defends,

To fight like fabled demi-gods they came,

Their age, their ardour, and their force the same;

French, English, Lorrainese in combat close,

And in one stream the mingled slaughter flows.

Oh thou! the genius of that fatal day,

Soul of the strife, destroying angel, say,

Whose was the triumph then; which hero’s host

Yourself assisted, and heaven favoured most?

Long time the chiefs with rival glory crowned,

Dealt equal slaughter through the legions round;

At length, by factious rage in vain assailed,

The righteous cause and Henry’s arms prevailed;

Worn with disastrous toil and long fatigue,

Exhausted, hopeless, fled the vanquished League.

As on Pyrenees’ ever-clouded brow,

When swelling torrents threat the vale below,

A while with solid banks and lofty mounds,

They stay the foaming deluge in its bounds;

But soon, the barrier broke, the rushing tide

Roars unresisted down the mountain’s side,

Uproots the forest oaks, and bears away,

Flocks, folds and herds, an undistinguished prey:

So from the smoking walls with matchless force,

Victorious Bourbon urged his rapid course,

Such havoc where the royal warrior passed,

Deformed the ranks and laid the battle waste.

At length the friendly gates, by Mayenne’s command

Flung wide, received the desolated band,

The victor hosts around the suburbs fly

Incensed, and hurl the blazing torch on high,

Their temperate valour kindles into rage,

And spoil and plunder are the war they wage.

Henry perceived it not; with eager flight

He chased the foe, dispersed before his sight;

Spurred by his courage, with success elate

And ardent joy, he reached the hostile gate,

Thence on his scattered force aloud he calls,

“Haste, fly my friends, and scale the haughty walls.”

When suddenly in rolling clouds enshrined,

A beauteous form came floating on the wind,

With gracious mien and awful to the view,

Towards Henry the descending vision flew,

His brow was with immortal splendour graced,

And horror mixed with love his radiant eyes expressed.

“Hold, hapless conqueror of your native land!”

The phantom cried, “and stay your vengeful hand;

This fair dominion you with war deface,

Is yours of old, the birthright of your race;

These lives you seek, are vassals of your throne,

This wealth you give to plunder, is your own;

Spare your own heritage, nor seek to reign

A solitary monarch o’er the slain.”

Amazed the soldier heard the solemn sound,

And dropped his spoils, and prostrate kissed the ground.

Then Henry, rage still boiling in his breast,

Like seas hoarse murmuring while they sink to rest,

“Say bright inhabitant of heaven, what means

Your hallowed form amidst these horrid scenes?”

Mild as the breeze, at summer’s evening tide

Serene, the visionary shape replied:

“Behold the sainted king whom France adores,

Protector of the Bourbon race, and yours,

That Louis, who like you once urged the fight,

Whose shrines you heed not, and whose faith you slight;

Know when the destined days their course have run,

Heaven shall itself conduct you to the throne;

Thine is the victory, but that great reward,

Is for thy mercy, not thy might, prepared.”

He spoke, the listening chief with rapture hears,

And down his cheek fast flow the joyful tears;

Peace soothed his tranquil heart, he dropped his sword,

And on his knees devout the shade adored.

Then twice around his neck his arms he flung,

And thrice deceived on vain embraces hung;

Light as an empty dream at break of day,

Or as a blast of wind, he rushed away.

Meanwhile in haste to guard the invested town,

The swarming multitude the ramparts crown,

Thick from above a fiery flood they pour,

And at the monarch aim the fatal shower,

But heaven’s bright influence, round his temples shed,

Diverts the storm, and guards his sacred head.

’Twas then he saw, protected as he stood,

What thanks to his paternal saint he owed;

Towards Paris his sad eye in sorrow thrown,

“Ye French!” he cried, “and thou ill-fated town,

Ye citizens, a blind deluded horde,

How long will you withstand your lawful lord!”

Nor more; but as the star that brings the day,

At eve declining in his western way,

More mildly shoots his horizontal fires,

And seems an ampler globe as he retires,

Such from the walls the parting hero turned,

While all his kindred saint within his bosom burned.

Vincennes he sought, where Louis whilom spoke

His righteous laws beneath an aged oak.

Vincennes, alas! no more a calm retreat, [45]

How art thou changed, thou once delightful seat!

Thy rural charms, thy peaceful smiles are fled,

And blank despair possesses thee instead.

’Tis there the great, their hapless labours done,

And all the short-lived race of glory run,

The fickle changes of their various lot

Conclude, and die neglected and forgot.

Now night o’er heaven pursued her dusky way,

And hid in shades the horrors of the day.

CANTO VII.

THE ARGUMENT.

Henry IV. is transported in a vision by St. Louis to heaven, and the infernal regions. He arrives at the palace of the Destinies; where he has an opportunity of seeing his posterity, and the great men hereafter to be produced in France.

The great, the boundless clemency of God,

To soothe the ills of life’s perplexing road,

Sweet sleep, and hope, two friendly beings gave,

Which earth’s dark, gloomy confines never leave.

When man, fatigued by labours of the day,

Has toiled his spirits and his strength away,

That, nature’s friend, restores her powers again,

And brings the blest forgetfulness of pain.

This, oft deceitful, but forever kind,

Diffuses warmth and transport through the mind.

From her the few, whom heaven approves, may learn

The pleasing issue of each high concern,

Pure as her author in the realms above

To them she brings the tidings of his love.

Immortal Louis bid the faithful pair

Expand their downy wings, and soften Henry’s care.

Still sleep repairs to Vincennes’ shady ground;

The winds subside, and silence reigns around.

Hope’s blooming offspring, happy dreams succeed,

And give the pleasing, though ideal meed.

The verdant olive, and the laurel bough,

Entwined with poppies, grace the hero’s brow.

On Bourbon’s temples Louis placed the crown

Whose radiant honours once adorned his own.

“Go, reign,” he cried, “and triumph o’er thy foes;

No other hope the race of Louis knows.

Yet think diviner presents to receive,

Far more, my son, than royalty I give.

What boots renown in arms, should heaven with hold

Her light more precious than the purest gold?

These worldly honours are a barren good;

Rewards uncertain on the brave bestowed:

‘A transient greatness, and a fading wreath

Blasted by troubles, and destroyed by death.

Empire more durable, for thee designed,

I come to show thee, and inform thy mind.

Attend my steps through paths thou ne’er hast trod,

And fly to meet the bosom of thy God.”

Thus spoke the saint; they mount the car of light,

And swiftly traverse the ethereal height.

Thus midnight lightnings flash, while thunders roll,

And cleave the ambient air from pole to pole.

Thus rose Elijah on the fiery cloud;

The radiant ether with effulgence glowed:

To purer worlds, arrayed in glories bright,

The prophet fled, and vanished from the sight.

Amidst those orbs which move by certain laws

Known to ea.ch sage whom love of science draws,

The sun, revolving round his axis turns,

Shines undiminished, and forever burns.

Thence spring those golden torrents, which bestow

All vital warmth, and vigour as they flow.

From thence the welcome day, and year proceeds;

Through various worlds his genial influence spreads.

The rolling planets beam with borrowed rays,

And all around reflect the solar blaze;

Attract each other, and each other shun:

And end their courses where they first begun.

Far in the void unnumbered worlds arise,

And suns unnumbered light the azure skies.

Far beyond all the God of heaven resides,

Marks every orbit, every motion guides.

Thither the hero and the saint repair;

Myriads of spirits are created there,

Which amply people all the globe, and fill

The human body; such the Almighty’s will.

There, with immortal spirits at His feet,

The Judge incorruptible holds His seat.

The God eternal, in all climes adored

By different names, Jehovah, Jove, or Lord.

Before His throne our plaintive sorrows rise;

Our errors He beholds with pitying eyes:

Those senseless portraits, figured by mankind,

To paint His image, and omniscient mind.

All who on earth’s inferior confines breathe,

Attend His summons through the gates of death:

The Eastern sage, with holy wisdom fraught,

The sons of science, whom Confucius taught;

Those who succeed in Zoroaster’s cause,

And blindly yield submission to his laws:

The pale inhabitants of Zembla’s coast,

That dreary region of eternal frost;

America’s sons, with fatal error blind,

Where truth illumines not the savage mind.

The gazing Dervish looks in vain around

At God’s right hand no prophet to be found.

The Bonze, with gloomy, penitential brow,

Derives no comfort from his rigid vow.

At once enlightened, all the dead await

To hear their sentence, and approaching fate.

That mighty Being, whose extended view,

And boundless knowledge looks all nature through,

The past, the present, and the future times,

Rewards their love, or punishes their crimes.

The prince approached not, in those realms of light,

The throne invisible to human sight;

Whence issues forth the terrible decree

Which man presumes too fondly to foresee.

Is God, said Henry to himself, unjust,

On whom the world’s created beings trust?

Will the Almighty not vouchsafe to save

For want of knowledge which He never gave?

Expect religion where it never shone;

And judge the universe by laws unknown?

His hand created all, and all will find

That heaven’s high king is merciful, and kind.

His voice informs the whole, and every part;

Fair nature’s laws are stamped on every heart.

Nature, the same through each inferior clime,

Pure, and unspotted to the end of time,

By this the pagan’s sentence will proceed,

And pagan virtue is religion’s deed.

While thus, with reason narrow, and confined,

On truths mysterious he employed his mind,

A solemn, awful voice was heard around;

All heaven, all nature shuddered at the sound.

Such were the thunders, which from Sinai’s brow,

Diffused a horror through the plains below.

Each seraph glowed with adoration’s fire,

And silence reigned through all the cherub choir.

The rolling spheres the sacred accents caught,

And truths divine to other planets taught.

Distrust thy mental powers, nor blindly stray

As pride, or feebler reason points the way,

The High Invisible who rules above,

Escapes thy knowledge, but demands thy love.

His power, and justice punish, and control

Each wilful error of the stubborn soul.

To pure devotion be thy heart consigned,

Truth’s radiant orb illumine all thy mind.

These were the sounds, when, through the fields of light,

A rapid whirlwind from the ethereal height

Conveyed the prince to dark, and dreary climes,

Like those where Chaos reigned in elder times.

No solar influence, like its author mild,

Diffuses comfort through the savage wild.

Angels abhor the desolated waste,

Which life’s fair, fruitful blossom never graced.

Confusion, death, each terror of despair,

Fixed on his throne, presides a tyrant there.

O heavens! what shrieks of woe, what piteous cries,

What sulphurous smokes, what horrid flames arise!

“What fiends,” cried Bourbon, “to these climes retreat!

What gulfs, what torrents burst beneath our feet!”

“See here,” the saint returned, “the gates of hell,

Which justice formed, where impious spirits dwell.

Come, view the dismal regions of distress;

These paths are always easy of access.”

.There squint-eyed Envy lay, whose poisonous breath

Consumes the verdure of each laurel wreath:

In night’s impenetrable darkness bred,

She hates the living, but applauds the dead.

Her sparkling eyes, which shun the orb of day,

Perceiving Henry, Envy turned away.

Near her, self-loving, self-admiring Pride,

And downcast Weakness, ever pale, reside.

Weakness, which yields to each persuasive crime,

And crops the flower of virtue in its prime.

Ambition there with headstrong fury raves,

With thrones surrounded, sepulchres, and slaves.

Submissive, meek Hypocrisy was nigh,

Hell in her heart, all heaven in her eye.

There Interest, father of all crimes, appeared,

And blinded Zeal by cruelty revered.

These wild, tyrannic rulers of mankind,

When Henry came, their savage air resigned.

Their impious troop ne’er reached his purer soul,

Such virtue yields not to their mad control.

“Who comes,” they cried, “to break the peaceful rest

Of night eternal, and these shades molest?”

Our hero viewed the subterranean scene,

And slowly travelled through the ranks obscene.

Louis led on.—Oh heaven! is that the hand,

Which murdered Valois at the League’s command?

Is that the monster? yes, I know him well,

His arm still holds the parricidal steel.

While barbarous priests proclaim the wretch divine,

And place his portrait on the hallowed shrine,

Though Rome, and faction celebrate his name

To hymns, and praises hell denies his claim.

“Princes, and kings,” the honoured saint replied,

“Meet in these realms the punishment of pride.

Behold those tyrants, once adored by all,

Whose height but served to aggrandize their fall.

God pours His vengeance on the sceptred crowd,

For vice committed, and for crimes allowed.

Death, from on high commissioned to destroy,

Cut short the transport of each wayward joy.

No pomp of greatness could the victim save;

Their beams of glory set within the grave.

Now is no civil, sly deceiver near,

To whisper error in the sovereign’s ear.

Once injured truth the sword of terror draws;

Displays each crime, and indicates her cause.

Behold yon heroes tremble at her nod,

Esteemed as tyrants in the eyes of God.

Now on their heads descend those thunders dire,

Formed by themselves to set the world on fire.

Close by their side, the weakest of mankind,

Each listless, feeble monarch is reclined;

Whose indolence disgraced the subject land,

Mere airy forms, mere nothings in command.

Sinister counsellors on these await,

Once their imperious ministers of state.

Proud, avaricious, of immortal lives,

Who sold what honours Mars, or Themis gives:

Sold what our fathers purchased by their blood,

And all that’s precious to the great, and good.”

“Tell me,” said Henry, “O ye sons of ease,

Must tender spirits dwell in climes like these?

You, who, on flowery couches, pass away

The tranquil moments of life’s useless day.

Shall virtue’s friends in fiery torments roll?

Whose faults have risen from expanse of soul.

Shall one mistaken, momentary joy

Maturer Wisdom’s plenteous fruits destroy?

This,” cried the prince, “the lot of human race?

Condemned for endless ages to distress!

If all mankind one common hell devours,

Eternal tortures close our transient hours,

Who was not more in non-existence blest?

Who would not perish at his mother’s breast?

Far happier man! had God’s creative hand

Formed him less free, in innocence to stand:

Had God, thus awfully severe, bestowed

The sole capacity of doing good.”

“Think not,” the saint replied, “that sinners feel

Vengeance too heavy, or deserve not hell.

Think not the great Creator of mankind

To these His works is cruel, or unkind.

Lord of all beings, He presides above

With mercy infinite, and boundless love.

Though mortals see the tyrant in their God,

Parental tenderness directs His rod.

Let not these horrid scenes thy soul alarm;

Compassion checks the fury of his arm:

Nor endless punishments inflicts on those

Whose faults from human imperfection rose:

Whose pleasures, followed by remorse, have been

The transient cause of momentary sin.”

Such were his accents—to the realms of light

Both are conveyed with instantaneous flight.

Infernal darkness shuns those flowery plains

Where spotless innocence forever reigns.

There in the floods of purest ether play

The beams refulgent of eternal day.

Each blooming scene seraphic joys bestowed;

And Henry’s soul with unknown raptures glowed.

There tranquil pleasure spreads her every charm

Which thought can fancy, or which heaven can form.

No cares solicit, and no passions move;

But all is governed by angelic love.

Far other love, than that of wild desires,

Which grosser sense, and luxury inspires.

The bright, the sacred flame on earth unknown,

Which burns in heaven, and heavenly minds alone.

Its chaste endearments all their hours employ,

And endless wishes meet with endless joy.

There dwell true heroes; there each pious sage,

And monarchs once the glory of their age.

Thence Charlemagne, and Clovis turn their eyes

On Gallia’s empire from the azure skies:

On golden thrones forever placed sublime,

And clad in honours unimpaired by time.

There, fiercest foes the happy union prove

Of pure affection, and a brother’s love.

Louis the Wise, amidst the royal band,

Tall as a cedar issues his command.

Louis, of France the glory, and the pride,

Who ruled our realms with justice by his side.

Oft would he pardon, oft relief supply;

And wipe the falling tear from every eye.

D’Amboise is still commissioned to attend;

His faithful minister, and warmest friend.

To him alone was Gallia’s honour dear:

To him alone her homage was sincere.

His gentler hands were sullied not with blood;

His every wish was centred in her good.

Oh spotless manners! bright, and halcyon days!

Worthy eternal memory, and praise.

Then wholesome laws adorned, and blessed the State:

Subjects were happy, and the monarch great.

Return, ye halcyon days, with golden wing:

And equal blessings, equal honours bring.

Virtue, descend, another Louis frame

As rich in merit, and as great in fame.

Farther remote, those worthy heroes stood,

Careless of life, and prodigal of blood,

Who died with transport for the public weal;

Led on by duty, not enraged by zeal.

Brave Montmorency, Trimouille, de Foix, [46]

Who sought their passage to those fields of joy.

There Guesclin drinks of pleasure’s purer springs: [47]

Guesclin, the avenger, and the dread of kings.

There too appeared the Amazonian dame, [48]

The tottering throne’s support, and England’s shame.

“These,” cried the saint, “who now possess the skies,

Like thee with glory dazzled Europe’s eyes.

Virtue alone their simpler minds could move:

The Church was nourished by their filial love.

Like me they honoured truth’s diviner name:

Our worship uniform, our Church the same.

Say, why does Bourbon follow other laws,

Or why defend religion’s weaker cause?

“Time, with incessant flight prepared to roam,

Quits, and revisits this terrific dome:

And pours with plenteous hand on all mankind

The good, and evil for each race designed.

An altar high of massy iron bears

The fatal annals of succeeding years.

Where God’s own hand has marked, nor marked in vain

Each transient pleasure, each severer pain.

There liberty, that haughty slave, is bound,

With chains invisible encircled round.

Beneath the yoke she bends her stubborn head,

Still unconstrained, unconscious of the deed.

This suppliant turn that hidden chain supplies

Wisely concealed forever from her eyes.

The fates appear her sentence to fulfil:

Each action seems the product of free-will.”

“From thence,” cried Louis, “on the human race

Descends the influence of heavenly grace.

In future times its power thy tongue shall tell:

Its purer radiance all thy heart shall feel.

Those precious moments God alone bestows;

No mortal hastens, and no being knows.

But Oh how slowly comes that period on

When God shall love, and own thee for His son!

Too long shall weakness hide thy brighter rays;

And lead thy steps through errors slippery ways.

Teach him, kind heaven, the happier, better road;

Shorten the days which part him from his God.”

But see what crowds in long succession press

Through the vast region of unbounded space.

These sacred mansions to thy view display

The unborn offspring of some future day.

All times, and places are forever nigh,

All beings present to Jehovah’s eye.

Here fate has marked their destined hour of birth,

Their rise, their grandeur, and their fall on earth.

The various changes of each life to come,

Their vices, virtues, and their final doom.

Draw near, for heaven allows us to foresee

What kings, and heroes shall descend from thee.

That graceful personage is Bourbon’s son,

Formed to support the glory of the crown.

The warlike leader shall his triumphs boast

O’er Belgia’s plains, and proud Iberia’s coast.

To deeds more noble shall his son aspire;

And wreaths more splendid first adorn his sire.

On beds of lilies, near a towering throne,

Two radiant forms before our hero shone.

Monarchs they seemed, of high, imperious pride,

And Roman purple flowed adown their side.

A subject nation couched beneath their feet,

And guards unnumbered formed the train complete.

“These,” said the saint, “are doomed to endless fame:

In all things sovereign, save the royal name.

Richelieu, and Mazarin, designed by fate

Immortal ministers of Gallia’s State.

To them shall policy consign her aid;

And fortune raise them from the altar’s shade.

Ruled by despotic power, shall France confess

Great Richelieu’s genius, Mazarin’s address.

One flies with art before the rising storm: [49]

One braves all danger in its fiercest form.

Both to the princes of our royal blood

With hate relentless enemies avowed.

With high ambition, and with pride inspired,

By all disliked and yet by all admired.

Their artful schemes, and industry shall bring

Plagues on their country, glory on their king.

“O thou, great Colbert, whose enlightened mind [50]

Schemes less extensive for our good designed!

No lustre equals, none excels thy own,

Save that which gilds, and decorates the crown.

Nursed by thy genius, heaven-born plenty reigns,

And pours her treasures over Gallia’s plains.

Colbert by generous deeds to glory rose:

His only vengeance was to bless his foes.

Thus were dispensed the gifts of heavenly grace,

By God’s own confidant on Israel’s race.

That race, whose blasphemy could ne’er remove,

Or quench the beams of mercy, and of love.

“What troops of slaves before that monarch stand! [51]

What numbers tremble at his high command!

No king did Gallia ever yet obey

With such profound submission to his sway.

Though less beloved, more dreaded in her eyes,

Like thee he claims fair glory’s richest prize.

Firm in all danger, in success too warm

When fortune smiles, and conquest meets his arm.

Himself shall crush, superior to intrigue,

Full twenty nations joined in powerful league.

Praise shall attend him to his latest breath,

Great in his life, but greater in his death.

Thrice happy age! when nature’s lavish hand

With all her graces shall adorn the land.

Thrice happy age! when every art refined

Spreads her fair polish o’er the ruder mind.

The muse forever our retreats shall love

More than the shades of Aganippe’s grove.

From sculptured stone the seeming accent flows;

With animated tints the canvas glows.

What sons of science in that period rise,

Measure the universe, and read the skies!

The purer ray of philosophic light

Reveals all nature, and dispels the night.

Presumptuous error from their view retreats;

Truth crowns their labours, and their joy completes.

Thy accents too, sweet music, strike mine ear,

Music, descended from the heavenly sphere.

’Tis thine to soothe, to soften, and control

Each wayward passion of the ruffled soul.

Unpolished Greece, and Italy have owned

The strong enchantments of thy magic sound.

The subjects ruled by Gallia’s powerful king

Shall bravely conquer, and as sweetly sing.

Shall join the poet’s to the warrior’s praise,

And twine Bellona’s with Apollo’s bays.

E’en now I see this second age of gold

Produce a people of heroic mould.

Here numerous armies skim before my sight;

There fly the Bourbons eager for the fight.

At once his master’s terror, and support,

Great Condé makes the flames of war his sport. [52]

Turenne more calmly meets the hostile power,

In arms his equal, and in wisdom more.

Assemblage rare! in Catinat are seen [53]

The hero’s talents, and the sage’s mien.

Known by his compass Vauban from the tower [54]

Smiles at the tumult, and the cannon’s roar.

England shall tell of Luxembourg’s renown, [55]

In war invincible, at court unknown.

Onward I see the martial Villars move [56]

To wrest the thunder from the bird of Jove.

Conquest attends to bid the battle cease,

And leaves him sovereign arbiter of peace.

Denain shall own brave Villars to have been

The worthy rival of the great Eugene.

“What princely youth draws near, whose manly face [57]

United majesty, and sweetness grace?

See how unmoved—Oh heavens! what sudden shade

Conceals the beauties which his form displayed!

Death flutters round; health, beauty, all are gone:

He falls when ready to ascend the throne.

Heaven formed him all that’s truly just, and good:

Descended, Bourbon, from thy royal blood.

Oh gracious God! shall fate but show mankind

A flower so sweet, and virtues so refined!

What could a soul so generous not obtain!

What joys would France experience from his reign!

Produced, and nurtured by his fostering hand

Fair peace, and plenty had enriched the land.

Each day some new beneficence had brought:

Oh how shall Gallia weep! alarming thought!

When one dark, silent sepulchre contains

The son’s, the mother’s, and the sire’s remains.

“Fallen is the tree, and from its ruins springs

An infant successor to Gallia’s kings.

A tender shoot, from whose increasing shade

France may derive some salutary aid.

Conduct him, Fleury, to the throne of truth.

Wait on his years, and cultivate his youth.

Teach him self-knowledge, and, if Fleury can,

Teach him that Louis is no more than man.

Inspire each virtue which can life adorn;

Kings for their subjects, not themselves are born.

And thou, O France, once more arise to day;

Resume thy majesty beneath his sway.

Let every science, which retired before,

Crown thy fair temples, and adorn thy shore.

The azure waters with thy navies sweep:

So wills the monarch of the briny deep.

See, from the Nile, the Euxine, and the Ind,

Each port by nature, or by art designed,

Commerce aloud demands thee for her seat;

And spreads her richest treasures at thy feet.

Adieu to terror, and adieu to war,

The peaceful olive be thy future care.

“Pursued by envy, and distraction’s crew,

A chief renowned advances to the view; [58]

Easy, not weak, when glory spurs him on,

Engaged by novelties, by trifles won.

Though luxury displays a thousand charms,

And smiling pleasure courts him to her arms,

Yet shall he keep all Europe in suspense

By artful politics, and manly sense.

The world shall move as Orleans shall guide;

And every science flourish at his side.

Empire, my son, himself shall never reach;

‘Tis his the art of government to teach.

“Now burst the lightning from the opening skies,

And Gallia’s standard waved before their eyes.

Iberia’s troops, arrayed in arms complete,

The German eagle crushed beneath their feet.

When thus the saint—no more remains the trace

Of Charles the Fifth, his glory, or his race.

Each earthly being has its final hour;

Eternal wisdom let us all adore.

From here all human revolutions spring:

E’en Spain from Bourbon shall request a king.

Illustrious Philip shall receive the crown;

And sit as monarch on Iberia’s throne.

Surprise was soon succeeded by delight,

And Henry’s soul enraptured at the sight.

Repress thy transports, cried the saint, and dread

This great event, this present to Madrid.

Say, who can fathom heaven’s concealed intent,

Dangers may come, and Paris may repent.

Oh Philip! Oh my sons! shall France and Spain

Thus meet, and never be disjoined again!

How long shall fatal politics forbear

To light the flames of discord, and of war!”

Thus Louis spoke—when lo! the scene withdrew,

Each object vanished from our hero’s view.

The sacred portals closed before his eyes,

And sudden darkness overspread the skies.

Far in the east Aurora moving on

Unlocked the golden chambers of the sun.

Night’s sable robe o’er other climes was spread,

Each dream retired, and every flitting shade.

The prince arose, with heavenly ardour fired,

Unusual vigour all his soul inspired.

Fear, and respect, great Bourbon, now were thine:

Full on thy brow sat majesty divine.

Thus when before the tribes great Moses stood,

Returned at length from Sinai, and from God,

His eyeballs flashed intolerable light;

Each prostrate Hebrew shuddered at the sight.

CANTO VIII.

THE ARGUMENT.

The Earl of Egmont comes to assist Mayenne and the League. Battle of Ivry, in which Mayenne is defeated and Egmont slain. Valour, and clemency of Henry the Great.

Dejected by their loss, the states appear

Less haughty, and assume an humbler air,

Henry, such terror in their hearts had wrought,

Their king-creating schemes were all forgot;

Wavering and weak in counsel, and afraid

To crown their idol Mayenne, or to degrade,

By vain decrees they labour to complete

And ratify a power, not given him yet.

This self-commissioned chief, this king uncrowned [59]

In chains of iron rule his faction bound;

His willing slaves obedient to his laws,

Resolve to fight and perish in his cause;

Thus flushed with hope, to council he convenes

The haughty lords, on whom his fortune leans.

They come: despair, and unextinguished hate,

And malice on their faded features sate;

Some tremble in their pace, and feebly tread,

Faint with the loss of blood in battle shed,

But keen resentment prompts them to repair

Their losses, and revenge the wounds they bear.

Before the chief their sullen ranks they range,

And grasp their shining arms, and vow revenge.

So the fierce sons of earth, as fable feigns,

Where Pelion overlooks Thessalia’s plains,

With mountains piled on mountains, vainly strove,

To scale the everlasting throne of Jove.

When sudden on a car of radiant light

Exalted, Discord flashed upon their sight;

“Courage,” she said, “‘tis now the times demand

Your fixed resolves, lo! succour is at hand.”

First ran d’Aumale, and joyful from afar

Beheld the Spanish lances gleam in air;

Then cried aloud, “’Tis come; the expected aid,

So oft demanded, and so long delayed.”

Near to that hallowed spot, where rest revered

The relics of our kings, their march appeared;

The groves of polished spears, the targets bound

With circling gold, the shining helms around,

Against the sun with full reflection play,

Rival his light and shed a second day.

To meet their march the roaring rabble went,

And hailed the mighty chief Madrid had sent;

That chief was Egmont; famed for martial fire, [60]

Ambitious son of an unhappy sire;

At Brussels first he drew the vital air;

His country’s weal was all his father’s care,

For that, the rage of tyrants he defied,

And in the cause of freedom, bravely died.

The servile son, as base as he was proud,

Fawned on that hand which shed his father’s blood,

For sordid interest joined his country’s foes,

And fought for France, regardless of her woes.

Philip, on Mayenne the warlike youth bestowed,

And armed him forth to be his guardian god;

Nor doubted Mayenne, but slaughter and dismay

Should spread to Bourbon’s tent, when Egmont led the way.

With heedless arrogance their march they drew,

And Henry’s heart exulted at the view,

Gods! how his eager hopes anticipate

And meet the moment that decides his fate.

Their streams where Iton and fair Eura lead,

By nature blest, a fertile plain is spread,

No wars had yet approached the peaceful scene,

Nor warrior’s footstep pressed the flowery green,

The shepherds there, while civil rage destroyed

The regions round, their happy hours enjoyed,

Screened by their poverty, they seemed secure

From lawless rapine and the soldier’s power,

Nor heard beneath their humble roofs the jar

Of arms, or clamour of the sounding war.

Thither each hostile leader his array

Directs, and desolation marks their way,

A sudden horror strikes the trembling floods,

The frighted shepherds seek the sheltering woods,

The partners of their grief attend their flight,

And bear their weeping infants from the sight.

Ye hapless natives of this sweet recess!

Charge not at least your king with your distress,

For peace he courts the combat, and his hand

Shall shed the bounteous blessing o’er the land;

He shares your sorrows, and shall end your woes,

Nor seeks you, but to save you from your foes.

Along the ranks he darts his glancing eyes,

Swift as the winds his foaming courser flies,

Proud of his load, he catches with delight

The trumpets’ sound, and hopes the promised fight.

Crowned with his laurels, at their master’s side,

A well-distinguished group of warriors ride,

D’Aumont, beneath five kings a chief renowned, [61]

Biron, whose name bore terror in the sound, [62]

His son, whom toil nor danger could restrain, [63]

Who soon alas!—but he was faithful then;

Grillon and Sully by the guilty feared,

Chiefs whom the League detested, yet revered,

Turenne, whose virtues and unrivalled fame, [64]

Won the fair honours of the Bouillon name,

Ill-fated power alas! and ill-maintained,

Crushed in the birth, and lost as soon as gained.

His crest amid the band brave Essex rears,

And like a palm beneath our skies appears,

Among our elms the lofty stranger shoves

His growth, as if he scorned the native groves.

From his bright casque with Orient gems arrayed

And burnished gold, a starry lustre played;

Dear, valued gifts! with which his mistress strove

Less to reward his courage, than his love.

Ambitious chief! the mighty bulwark grown

Of Gallia’s prince, and darling of his own.

Such was the monarch’s train, with steadfast air

And firm, they wait the signal of the war,

Glad omens from their Henry’s eyes they took,

And read their conquest sure in his inspiring look.

’Twas then, afflicted with inglorious dread,

Unhappy Mayenne perceived his courage fled,

Whether at length his boding heart divines

The wrath of heaven on his unjust designs,

Whether the soul prophetic of our doom,

Foresees the dreary train of ills to come,

Whate’er the cause, he feels a chilling fear,

But veils it with a show of seeming cheer,

Inspires his troops with ardour of renown,

And fills their hearts with hopes that dwell not in his own.

But Egmont at his side, with glory fired,

And the rash confidence his youth inspired,

Flushed for the fight, and eager to display

His prowess, chides his infamous delay.

As when the Thracian courser from afar,

Hears the shrill trumpet and the sound of war,

A martial fire informs his vivid eye,

He neighs, he snorts, he bears his head on high,

Impatient of restraint he scorns the rein,

Springs o’er the fence and scours along the plain;

Such Egmont seemed, with beating heart he stood,

And in his eye the rage of battle glowed.

Even now he ponders his approaching fame,

And looks on conquest as his rightful claim;

Alas! he dreams not that his pride shall gain

Naught but a grave, in Ivry’s fatal plain.

Bourbon at length drew near, and thus inspired

His ardent warriors whom his presence fired:

“Ye sons of France! your king is at your head,

You see your foes, then follow where I lead,

Mark well this waving plume amid the fight,

Nor let the tempest shade it from your sight,

To that alone direct your constant aim,

Still sure to find it in the road to fame.”

Thus spoke the chief; his bands exulting hear,

And with new fury court the glorious war;

Then marched, and as he went, his pious breast

With silent prayers the God of hosts addressed.

At once the legions rush with headlong pace

Behind their chiefs, and snatch the middle space.

So where the seas with narrow Frith divide

Cantabria’s coasts from Afric’s desert side,

If eastern storms along the channel pour,

Sudden the fierce conflicting oceans roar,

Earth trembles at the shock, the sheeted brine

Invades the skies, the sun forgets to shine,

The trembling Moor believes all nature hurled

In ruin, and expects the falling world.

Now lengthened with the spear the musket spread

The carnage wide, and flew with double speed,

That fatal engine in Bayonne designed,

And framed by Discord to lay waste mankind,

Strikes a twin death, and can at once afford

The worst effect of fire, and havoc of the sword.

Trembled the steadfast earth beneath their feet

As sword to sword and lance to lance they meet,

From rank to rank despair and horror strode,

The shame of flight and impious thirst of blood.

Here from his stronger son the father flies,

There by the brother’s arm the brother dies,

Nature was shocked, and Eura’s conscious bank

Shrank with abhorrence from the blood it drank.

Bourbon his path right on to glory clears

Through bristling forests of extended spears,

O’er many a crested helm his course he sped;

Close in his rear, serene and undismayed

Went Mornay, thoughtful and intent alone

On Henry’s life, regardless of his own.

So, veiled in human shape, the poets feign

The gods engaged in arms on Phrygia’s plain;

“So when an angel by divine command,

With rising tempests shakes a guilty land,

Well pleased the Almighty’s orders to perform,

He rides the whirlwind, and directs the storm.”

The royal chief his dread commands expressed,

The prudent dictates of a hero’s breast,

Mornay the mighty charge attentive caught,

And bore it where the distant leaders fought,

The distant leaders to their troops convey

The word, their troops receive it, and obey.

They part, they join, in various forms are seen,

One soul informs and guides the vast machine.

Swift through the field returned in haste he seeks

The prince, accosts, and guards him while he speaks.

But still the stoic warrior kept unstained

With human blood, his inoffensive hand,

The king alone employed his generous thought,

For his defence the embattled field lie fought,

Detested war, and singularly brave

Knew boldly to face death, but never gave.

Turenne already with resistless power,

Repulsed the shattered forces of Nemours;

Scarce d’Ailly filled the plain, with dire alarms,

Proud of his thirty years consumed in arms;

Still spite of age the veteran chief displays

The well-strung vigour of his youthful days;

Of all his foes, one only would presume

To match his might, a hero in the bloom;

Now first indignant to the field he came,

And parted eager for the goal of fame.

New to the taste of Hymen, yet he fled

The chaste endearments of his bridal bed,

Disdained the trivial praise by beauty won,

And panted for a soldier’s fame alone.

That cruel morn, accusing heaven in vain,

And the cursed League that called him to the plain,

His beauteous bride with trembling fingers laced

His heavy corslet on her hero’s breast,

And covered with his helm of polished gold

Those eyes which still she languished to behold.

Towards d’Ailly the fierce youth, despising fear,

Spurred his proud steed, and couched his quivering spear,

Their headlong coursers trampled, as they fled,

The wounded heaps, the dying and the dead;

Poachy with blood the turf and matted grass,

Sink fetlock deep beneath them as they pass.

Swift to the shock they come; their shields sustain

The blow, their spears well pointed but in vain,

In scattered splinters shine upon the plain.

So when two clouds with thunder fraught draw near,

And join their dark encounter in mid air,

Struck from their sides the lightning quivers round,

Heaven roars, and mortals tremble at the sound.

Now from their steeds with unabated rage

Alighting swift, a closer war they wage;

Ran Discord to the scene, and near her stood

Death’s horrid spectre, pale and smeared with blood.

Already shine their falchions in their hands,

No kind preventing power their rage withstands,

The doom is past, their destiny commands.

Full at each other’s heart they aim alike,

Nor knows their fury at whose heart they strike;

Their bucklers clash, thick strokes descend from high,

And flakes of fire from their hard helmets fly,

Blood stains their hands, but still the tempered plate

Retards a while and disappoints their fate.

Each wondering at the long unfinished fight,

Esteems his rival and admires his might;

‘Till d’Ailly with a vigorous effort found

The fatal pass, and stretched him on the ground.

His faded eyes forever closed remain,

And his loose helmet rolls along the plain;

Then saw the wretched chief, too surely known,

The kindred features, and embraced his son.

But soon with horror and remorse oppressed,

Reversed the guilty steel against his breast.

That just revenge his hastening friends oppose;

When furious from the dreadful scene he rose;

Forth to the woods his cheerless journey sped,

From arms forever and from glory fled,

And in the covert of a shaggy den,

Dwells a sad exile from the ways of men.

There when the dawning day salutes the skies,

And when at eve the chilling vapours rise,

His unexhausted grief still flows the same,

Still echo sighs around his son’s lamented name.

Tender alarms, and boding terrors brought

The bride inquiring to the fatal spot,

Uncertain of her doom, with anxious haste

And faltering knees between the dead she passed,

Till stretched upon the plain her lord she spied,

Then shrieked, and sank expiring at his side.

The damps of death upon her temples hung,

And feeble sounds faint issued from her tongue,

Once more her eyes a last farewell assayed,

Once more her lips upon his lips she laid,

Within her arms the lifeless body pressed,

Then looked, then sighed, then died upon his breast.

Deplored examples of rebellious strife,

Ill-fated victims, father, son, and wife,

Oh may the sad remembrance of your woe,

Teach tears from ages yet unborn to flow,

With wholesome sorrow touch all future times,

And save the children from their father’s crimes.

But say what chief disperses thus abroad

The flying League, what hero, or what god?

’Tis Biron, ’tis his youthful arm o’erthrows

And drives along the plain his scattered foes.

D’Aumale beheld, and maddening at the sight,

“Stand fast,” he cried, “and stay your coward flight;

Friends of the Guise and Mayenne, their vengeance due

Rome and the Church and France expect from you;

Return then, and your pristine force recall,

Conquest is theirs who fight beneath d’Aumale.”

Fosseuse assisting and Beauveau sustain

Their part, and rally the disordered train,

Before the van d’Aumale his station took,

And the closed lines caught courage from his look.

The chance of war now flows a backward course,

Biron in vain withstands the driving force,

Nesle and Angenne within his sight are slain,

And Parabère and Clermont press the plain,

Himself scarce lived, so fast the purple tide

Flowed from his wounds, and happier, had he died.

A death so glorious with unfading fame

Forever had adorned the hero’s name.

Soon learned the royal chief to what distress

The youth was fallen, courageous in excess;

He loved him, not as monarchs condescend

To love, but well, and plainly as a friend,

Nor thought a subject’s blood so mean a thing,

A smile alone o’erpaid it from a king.

Hail heaven-born friendship! the delight alone

Of noble minds, and banished from the throne.

Eager he flies, the generous fires that feed

His heart augment his vigour and his speed.

He came, and Biron kindling at the view,

His gathered strength to one last effort drew,

Cheered by the well-known voice again he plies

The sword, all force before the monarch flies,

The king redeems thee from the unequal strife

Rash youth, be faithful and deserve thy life.

Hark! a loud peal comes thundering from afar,

’Tis Discord blows afresh the flames of war,

To thwart the monarch’s virtue, with new fires

His fainting foes the beldam fiend inspires;

She winds her fatal trump, the woods around

And mountains tremble at the infernal sound.

Swift to d’Aumale the baleful notes impart

Their power, he feels the summons at his heart;

Bourbon alone he seeks: the boisterous throng

Close at his heels tumultuous pour along.

So the well-scented pack, long trained to blood,

Deep in the covert of a spacious wood,

Bay the fierce boar to battle, and elate

With heedless wrath rush headlong on their fate,

The shrillness of the cheering horn provokes

Their rage, and echoes from the distant rocks.

Thus stood the monarch by the crowd enclosed,

A host against his single arm opposed,

No friend at hand, no welcome aid he found,

Abandoned, and by death encompassed round.

’Twas then his sainted sire his strength renewed

With tenfold force and vigour unsubdued,

Firm as a rock, poised on its base he stood,

That braves the blast, and scorns the dashing flood.

Who shall relate, alas! what heroes died

In that dread hour on Eura’s purple side.

Shade of the first of kings, do thou diffuse

Thy spirit o’er my song, be thou my muse.

Now from afar his gathering nobles came,

They died for Bourbon, and he fought for them,

When Egmont rushed with yet unrivalled force,

To check the storm and thwart the monarch’s course.

Long had the chief, misled by martial pride,

Sought Henry through the combat far and wide,

Nor cared he, so his venturous arm might meet

That strife, for aught of danger or defeat.

“Bourbon,” he cried, “advance; behold a foe

Prepared to plant fresh laurels on your brow;

Now let your arm its utmost might display,

Ours be the strife, let us decide the day.”

He spoke, and lo! portentous from on high

A stream of lightning shot along the sky,

Slow peals of muttering thunder growled around,

Beneath the trembling soldier shook the ground.

Egmont, alas! a flattering omen draws,

And dreams that heaven shall combat in his cause,

That partial nature in his glory shared,

And by the thunder’s voice his victory declared.

At the first onset with full force applied

His driving falchion reached the monarch’s side,

Fast flowed a stream of his life blood, though slight

The wound, and Egmont triumphed at the sight.

But Bourbon unconcerned received the blow,

And with redoubled ardour pressed his foe;

Pleased when the field of glory could afford

A conquest hardly earned and worthy of his sword.

The stinging smart served only to provoke

His rage, and add new vigour to his stroke.

He springs upon the blow; the champion reels,

And the keen edge within his bosom feels,

O’erthrown beneath the trampling hoof he lies,

And death’s dim shadow skims before his eyes,

He sees the dreary regions of the dead,

And shrinks and shudders at his father’s shade.

Then first, their leader slain, the Iberian host

Declined the fight, their vaunted spirit lost,

Like a contagion their unwarlike fear

Seized all the ranks and caught from van to rear.

General and soldier felt the same dismay,

Nor longer these command, nor those obey.

Down fall the banners, routed and o’erthrown

And yelling with unmanly shrieks they run;

Some bend the suppliant knee, submissive join

Their hands, and to the chain their wrists resign,

Some from the fierce pursuer wildly fled,

And to the river swift their footsteps sped,

There plunged downright, amid the foaming tide

They sink, and meet the death they would avoid.

The waves encumbered seem to change their course,

And the choked stream recoils upon its source.

Mayenne in the tumult of this troubled scene

Lord of himself, afflicted, yet serene,

Surveyed his loss still tranquil and sedate,

And even in ruin hoped a better fate.

D’Aumale, his eyes in burning rage suffused,

His cruel stars and dastard bands accused.

“’Tis lost,” he cried, “see where the cowards fly,

Illustrious Mayenne! our task then is to die.”

“Die!” said the chief, “live rather to replace

Our fortune, and sustain the cause you grace,

Live to regain the laurels we have lost,

Nor now desert us, when we need you most.

Fly then, and where they straggle o’er the plain,

Glean up the wreck and remnant of our train.”

He hears, reluctant sobs his passion speaks,

And tears of anguish trickle down his cheeks,

A slow compliance sullenly he pays,

And frowning stern at the command, obeys.

Thus the proud lion whom the Moor has tamed,

And from the fierceness of his race reclaimed,

Bows down beneath his swarthy master’s hand,

And bends his surly front at his command,

With lowering aspect stalks behind his lord,

And grumbles while he crouches at his word.

Meanwhile in flight unhappy Mayenne confides,

And close within the walls his shame he hides;

Prone at the monarch’s feet the vanquished wait

From his award, the sentence of their fate;

When from the firmament’s unfolded space

Appeared the manes of the Bourbon race;

Louis in that important hour came down,

To gaze intent upon his godlike son,

To prove if the triumphant chief could tame

His soul to mercy, and deserve his fame.

The assembled captives by their looks besought

The monarch’s grace, but trembled at their lot,

When thus with gentle, but determined look,

The suppliant crowd the mighty chief bespoke.

“Be free, and use your freedom as you may,

Free to take arms against me, or obey;

On Mayenne or me let your election rest,

His be the sceptre who deserves it best,

Choose your own portion, your own fate decree,

Chains from the League, or victory with me.”

Astonished that a king with glory crowned,

And lord of the subjected plains around,

Even in the lap of triumph should forego

His right of arms, and vantage o’er the foe,

His grateful captives hail him at his feet

Victorious, and rejoice in their defeat.

No longer hatred rankles in their minds,

His might subdued them, and his bounty binds,

Proudly they mingle with the monarch’s train,

And turn their juster vengeance on Mayenne.

Now Bourbon merciful and mild had stayed

The carnage, and the soldier’s wrath allayed;

No longer through the ranks he cleaves his way,

Fierce as the lion bearing on his prey,

But seems a bounteous deity, inclined

To quell the tempest, and to cheer mankind.

Peace o’er his brows had shed a milder grace,

And smoothed the warlike terrors of his face;

Snatched from the jaws of the devouring strife,

His captives feel themselves restored to life,

Their dangers he repels, their wants supplies,

And views and guards them with a parent’s eyes.

Fame, the swift messenger of false and true,

Still as she flies increasing to the view,

O’er mountains and o’er seas, from clime to clime,

Expatiates, rapid as the flight of time.

Millions of piercing eyes to fame belong,

As many mouths still ply the restless tongue,

And round with listening ears her miscreant form is hung.

Where’er she roams, credulity is there,

And curiosity with craving ear,

And doubt, and hope, and ever-boding fear.

With the same speed she bears upon her wings

From far, the glory and the shame of kings,

And now unfolds them, eager to proclaim

Great Henry’s deeds, and fill the nations with his name.

From Tagus swift to Po the tidings ran,

And echoed through the lofty Vatican.

Joy to the North the spreading sounds convey,

To Spain, confusion, terror and dismay.

Ill-fated Paris, and thou faithless League,

Ye priests, full-fraught with malice and intrigue,

How trembled then your temples, and what dread

Disastrous, hung o’er every guilty head!

But see your guardian deity appears,

See Mayenne returning to dispel your fears!

Though foiled, not lost, not hopeless though o’er thrown,

For still rebellious Paris is his own.

With specious gloss he covers his defeat,

Calls ruin, victory, and flight, retreat,

Confirms the doubtful, and with prudent aim

Seeks by concealing, to repair his shame.

Transient, alas! the joy that art supplies,

For cruel truth soon scattered the disguise,

The veil of falsehood from their fate withdrew,

And opened all its horrors to their view.

“Not thus,” the fury cried, with raging mind,

“Shall Discord’s power be conquered, and confined:

’Tis not for this these wretched walls have seen

Torrents of blood, and mountains of the slain:

’Tis not for this the raging fires have shone,

That hated Bourbon might enjoy the throne.

Henceforth by weakness be his mind assailed,

Weakness may triumph where the sword has failed.

Force is but vain; all other hopes are gone:

For Henry yields but to himself alone.

This day shall beauty’s charms his bosom warm;

Subdue his valour, and unnerve his arm.”

Thus Discord spoke; and, through the fields of air,

Drawn by fierce hatred on her blood-stained car,

Swiftly repaired to Cytherea’s grove

Assured of vengeance, and in search of love.

Clouds of thick darkness then obscured the day,

Nature turned pale, and horror marked her way.

CANTO IX.

THE ARGUMENT.

Description of the temple of love. Discord implores his power to enervate the courage of Henry IV. The hero is detained some time by Madame d’Estrées so well known under the name of the fair Gabrielle. Mornay disengages him from his mistress, and the king returns to the army.

Fixed on the borders of Idalia’s coast,

Where sister realms their kindred limits boast, [65]

An ancient dome superior awe commands,

Whose strong foundations rose from nature’s hands:

But labour since has polished every part,

And nature yielded to the toils of art.

Each circling plain the verdant myrtles crown,

Unknown to winter’s desolating frown.

Pomona here her fruits profusely pours;

Here Flora sheds her variegated flowers.

Here, whilst spontaneous harvests fill the plains,

No season changes, and no wretch complains.

Here peace unfading soothes the sons of earth,

Such peace as reigned at nature’s earlier birth.

With hand of soft indulgence she displays

Celestial quiet, and serenest days.

Here every lawn in plenty’s robe is dressed,

With every sweet but innocency blessed.

From side to side the streams of music roll,

Whose soothing softness fascinates the soul.

In plaintive sonnets burns the lover’s flame

Who boasts his weakness, and exults in shame.

Each day, encircled with the fragrant store,

The little godhead’s smiles their prayers implore;

Eager they press to learn the poisonous art

At once to please and to enter the heart.

Delusive hope, whose charms serenely shine,

Conducts the train to love’s enchanting shrine.

The beauteous graces half-unveiled advance,

Indulge the song, and join the decent dance.

Voluptuous pleasure on the velvet plain

In calm tranquillity attends the strain.

Lo! by her side the heart-enchaining sighs

Fixed silence strongly speaking to the eyes;

The amorous transports, and the soft desires,

Which fan the bosom to the fiercest fires.

Thus smiles the alluring entrance of the dome:

When far within the daring footsteps roam,

What scenes of horror round the altar roll,

And shake the libertine’s presuming soul!

No sounds harmonious feast the ravished ears,

No more the lovely train of joys appears.

Conscious imprudence, murmurs, fears, and hate

With darkness blast the splendours of the state.

Stern jealousy, whose faltering step obeys

Each fell suspicion that her bliss betrays;

Ungoverned rage, with sharpest venom stored,

Rears in the van his unrelenting sword.

These malice joins, who with perfidious face

Smiles at the triumphs of the savage race.

Pensive repentance, shuddering in the rear,

Heaves the deep groan, and showers the plenteous tear.

Full in the centre of this horrid court,

Where pleasure’s fell companions all resort,

Love waves forever his fantastic rod,

At once a cruel, and a tender god.

His infant power the fates of mortals bears,

With wanton smiles dispensing peace, and wars.

Smooth flows deceit’s insinuating art

Which lifts the captive, animated heart.

He counts his triumphs from the splendid throne

While prostrate sons of pride the conqueror own.

Careless of good he plies his savage skill,

And dwells applauding on each deed of ill.

Now Discord opens through the ranks of joy

Her vengeful passage to the kindred boy.

Fierce in her hand the brandished torches glow,

Her eyeballs flash, and blood distains her brow.

“Where then,” she cries, “thy formidable darts!

Recline they pointed for more stubborn hearts?

If e’er my venom, mingled with thy fire,

Has fanned the flame, and raised the passion higher,

If oft for thee I trouble nature’s laws,

Rise, fly to vengeance of my injured cause.

Crushed by a victor king my snakes are laid,

Who joins the olive to the laurel’s shade.

Amid the tumults of a civil war

Meek-stepping Clemency attends his car;

Fixed to the standards, waving in the wind,

She soothes in Discord’s spite the rebel mind.

One victory gained, my throne, my empire falls;

Lo! Henry showers his rage on Paris’ walls.

He flies to fight, to conquer, and forgive;

Fast bound in brazen chains must Discord live.

’Tis thine to check the torrent of his course,

And drop soft poison on his valour’s source.

Yes, bend the victim to thy conquering dart,

And quell each virtue of his stubborn heart.

Of old (and well thou knowest) thy sovereign care

Bowed great Alcides to the imperial fair.

By thee proud Antony’s enervated mind

For Cleopatra’s form each thought resigned;

In flight inglorious o’er the ocean hurled

For her he quits the empire of the world.

Henry alone resists thy dread command,

Go, blast the laurels in his daring hand.

His brows entwine with myrtle’s amorous charms,

And sink the slumbering warrior in thy arms.

Fly to support; he shakes my tottering throne:

Go, shield an empire, and a cause thine own.”

The monster spoke: the trembling roof around

Returns the horrors of the dreadful sound.

Stretched on his flowery couch, the listening god

With artful smiles consented at her nod.

Armed with his golden darts resolved he flies

Clearing the azure brightness of the skies.

With pleasures, sports, and graces in his train

The zephyrs bear him to the Gallic plain.

Straight he discovers with malicious joy

The feeble Simois and the fields of Troy;

And laughs, reflecting in those seats renowned

O’er many a palace mouldering on the ground.

Venice from far, fair city! strikes his sight,

The prodigy of earth, and art’s delight;

Which towers supreme as ocean’s godhead gave

Her powerful empire o’er the encircling wave.

Sicilia’s plain his rapid flight retards,

Where his own genius nursed the pastoral bards.

Where fame reports through secret paths he led

The wandering waves from amorous Alpheus’ bed.

Now quitting Arethusa’s lovely shore

Swift to Vauclusia’s seats his course he bore;

Asylum soft: in life’s serener days

Where lovesick Petrarch sighed his pensive lays.

From there his eyes survey the favourite strand

Where Anet’s walls uprose at his command: [66]

Where art’s rich toils superior reverence claim,

And still beams forth Diana’s ciphered name.

There on her tomb the joys, and graces shower

In grateful memory each fragrant flower.

Now to the wanderer Ivry’s plain appears:

The monarch, ready for severer cares,

There first with softer pleasures soothes his breast,

And lulls his thunders to a transient rest.

Around his side the warrior youth displayed

Pursue the labours of the sylvan shade.

The godhead triumphs in his future pain,

Sharpens his arrows, and prepares his chain,

The winds, which erst he smoothed, his nod alarms;

He speaks, and sets the elements in arms.

From every side he calls the furious storms;

A weight of clouds the face of heaven deforms.

The impetuous torrent rushes from the sky;

The thunder rolls, the livid lightnings fly:

Each boisterous brother at his mandate springs

And earth lies shadowed with their murky wings.

Bright Phoebus sinks with night’s incumbent load,

And conscious nature shudders at the god.

O’er the dark plains through miry, dubious ways

Alone, and comfortless the monarch strays:

When watchful love displays the torch’s light,

Whose twinkling radiance strikes upon his sight.

The hostile star, with fatal joy betrayed,

He swiftly follows through the dreary shade.

Such fatal joy deluded wanderers show,

Led by the vapour’s transitory glow;

The guide malignant through the midnight gloom

Quits not the wretch, but leads him to his doom.

Once in the horrors of this lone retreat

Roamed a fair virgin’s solitary feet.

Silent, the centre of the fort within,

She waits her father from the battle’s din;

Loyal in council, veteran in the plain,

Who shone the foremost of his sovereign’s train:

D’Estrées her name, and nature’s guardian care [67]

Had showered her treasures to adorn the fair.

Beauty less fair the Grecian maid possessed,

Whose guilt betrayed her Menelaus’ rest.

With charms inferior Cleopatra glowed,

Whose eyes the lord of Italy subdued,

While to the shore the enamoured Cydnians move,

And incense shed as to the queen of love.

The nymph was now at that unsteady age

When headstrong passions all the mind engage.

No lovers yet their sighing vows impart,

Though formed for love, yet generous was her heart.

Thus the fair beauties of the blushing rose

Coy in the spring to wanton zephyr close:

But the full lustre of their stores display

To the kind influence of a summer’s day.

Cupid, preparing to ensnare the maid,

Slyly approaches in disguise arrayed.

No dart, no torch his chubby hands employ,

In voice, and figure as an artless boy.

“From yonder stream to this enchanting dome

The hapless Mayenne’s tremendous conqueror come.”

Full through her soul the soft infection ran;

She feign would captivate the godlike man.

A livelier bloom her graceful features prove,

Which crowns the triumphs of applauding love.

What could he doubt? with charms celestial spread

The attractive virgin to the king he led.

With double glow each ornament of art

In nature’s guise enslaves the enamoured heart.

Her golden tresses floating in the air

Now kiss the rising bosom of the fair;

Now start to view the heavenly sweets displayed

By native innocence more lovely made.

No stern, no gloomy frown, which puts to flight

Each thought of love, of beauty, and delight;

But the mild softness of a decent shame

The cheek just tipping with the purest flame:

Commanding reverence, which excites desires,

And sheds when conquered love’s increasing fires.

Now the arch god with each enchanting grace

Diffused resistless beauties o’er the place.

The plenteous myrtle with spontaneous birth

Springs from the bosom of the liberal earth.

Its amorous foliage decorates the glade,

And woos the thoughtless to its fatal shade.

Till hands unseen the entangled step betray;

Fear bids depart, but pleasure bids them stay.

Soft through the shade a soothing Lethe rolls,

Where happy lovers with inebriate souls

Quaff long oblivion to departed fame;

So unresisted love’s all-conquering flame!

How changed the scene! here every bosom glows;

Poured from each sweet the entrancing nectar flows.

Love sounds throughout: around, the feathered choir

Indulge the song and burn with mutual fire.

The hind arising ere the dawn of day

To Ceres’ golden treasures bends his way;

Now stops aghast: now heaves the plaintive sighs,

And feels the new born passion with surprise.

No more his soul the toils of harvest move;

He dwells delighted on the scenes of love:

While heedless of her flock the maiden stands,

And drops the spindle from her faltering hands.

Could fair d’Estrées resist the magic charm?

What power can guard ‘gainst love’s prevailing arm.

Overcome by youth, a hero and the god

She yields her virgin bosom to their nod.

Meanwhile the king with dauntless soul prepares

In thought to mingle with the battle’s cares.

Some subtle demon plies his secret art,

And free-born virtue sighing quits the heart.

To softer scenes his amorous soul betrayed

Sees, hears, and loves alone the heavenly maid.

But now the chieftains of the embattled band

With ardent vows their absent king demand;

They shuddered for his life, but little knew

Their fears were only to his glory due:

Immersed in grief the soldier’s conquering pride

Sinks to despair, no Henry for their guide.

Thy guardian power, O France, no longer stays

To grant continuance of the soft delays:

At Louis’ nod descending from the skies

Swift to the succour of his son he flies.

Alighting now o’er earth’s extended round

He seeks a mind for wisdom’s stores renowned,

Not where pale, hungry, speechless students claim

Fixed in a midnight gloom her sacred name,

But in fair Ivry, midst the din of arms,

Where the flushed warriors glow with conquest’s charms.

At length the genius stays his ardent flight,

Where Calvin’s floating banners spread to sight.

There Mornay he addressed; when reason leads,

Her solid influence consecrates our deeds.

As o’er the heathen world she poured her ray,

Whose virtues Christians blushing might survey,

Reason Aurelius’ sentiments refined,

And showered ideas over Plato’s mind.

Severe, but friendly Mornay knew the art

At once to mend, and captivate the heart.

His deeds more reverence than his doctrines move,

Each virtue met his fond, parental love.

Full steeled to pleasure, covetous of toils

He looked on dangers with undaunted smiles.

No poisonous frauds of palaces control

His nobly-stubborn purity of soul.

Thus Arethusa’s genial waters flow

Soft to the bosom of the deep below,

A crystal pure, unconscious of a stain,

Spite of the billows of the foaming main.

The generous Mornay by the goddess led

Haste to the seats, where rapturous pleasure shed

Her soothing opiate on the victor’s breast,

And lulled awhile the fates of France to rest.

Triumphant love each lavish charm employs

To blast his glory with redoubled joys.

A waste of transports fill the round of day,

Transports which fly too swiftly to decay.

To vengeance fired the little god descried

Mornay with heaven-born wisdom for his guide.

Full at the warrior-chief he points his dart

To lull his senses, and enthral his heart.

Thick fall the blunted shafts, Mornay awaits

The king’s return, and eyes the accursed retreats.

Fast by the stream, ‘midst nature’s rich perfume,

Sacred to silent ease where myrtles bloom,

D’Estrées on Henry lavished all her charms,

Melting he glowed, and languished in her arms.

No cooling change their blissful moments know,

Soft from their eyes the tears of rapture flow;

Tears, which redouble every fond delight,

And heavenly feelings of the soul excite;

Flushed with the full-blown rage of keen desires,

Which love alone can paint, for love alone inspires.

The wanton youth unfolds the hero’s vest,

While smiling pleasures fan his soul to rest.

One holds the cuirass reeking from the plain,

One grasps the sword, yet never worn in vain;

And laughs, while poising in his hand he shows

The bulwark of the throne, and terror of its foes.

From Discord’s voice the strains of insult roll,

Each cruel transport brooding in her soul,

With active fury at the favouring hour

To rouse the serpent of confederate power.

While Henry riots in the soft repose,

She wakes to vengeance his relentless foes.

Now in the fragrant gardens of delight

Mornay appears: he blushes at the sight

Their startled bosoms mutual fears engage,

And a dead silence chains the approaching sage.

But looks in silence bowed to earth impart

A powerful language to the sovereign’s heart;

And sadness lowering in the clouded face

Proclaims at once his weakness, and disgrace.

Ill had another taken Mornay’s care,

Love from the guilty few, accusers share.

“Fear not,” he cries, “our anger; rest at ease;

Who points my error cannot fail to please:

Worthy of thee our bosom shall remain;

’Tis well: and Henry is himself again.

Love now resigns that virtue he betrayed:

Fly, let us quit this soft, inglorious shade.

Yes, quit the scenes, where my rebellious flame

Would fondling still the silken fetters frame.

Self-conquest surely boasts the noblest charms,

We’ll brave the power of love in glory’s arms;

Scatter destruction o’er the extended shore,

And sheathe our error in the Spaniard’s gore.”

These generous words the sage’s soul inspire:

“Yes, now my sovereign beams with native fire.

Each rebel passion feels thy conquering reins,

O great protector of thy country’s plains.

Love adds fresh lustre to the blaze of fame,

For triumphs there superior greatness claim.”

He said; the monarch hastens to depart,

But oh! what sorrows load his amorous heart!

Still, as he flies, he cannot but adore,

His tears he censures, yet he weeps the more.

Forced by the sage, attracted by the fair,

He flies, returns, and quits her in despair.

D’Estrées unable to sustain the strife

Falls prostrate robbed of colour, as of life.

A sudden night invades her beauteous eyes;

Love who perceived it, sent forth dreadful cries.

Pierced to the soul, lest death’s eternal shade

Should rob his empire of the lovely maid:

Should spoil the lustre of so fair a frame,

Destined through France to spread the genial flame.

Wrapt in his arms, again her eyelids move,

And gently open to the voice of love.

The king she names, the king demands in vain,

Now looks, now closes her bright eyes again.

Love bathed in sorrow for the suffering fair

Recalled her sinking spirit by his prayer;

With flattering hopes her solaced soul betrayed,

And soothed those evils which himself had made.

Mornay of steady, and relentless mind,

Led on the monarch still but half resigned.

Firm force and godlike virtue point the way,

While glory’s hands the laurel wreath display;

And love, indignant as the victor’s fame,

Flies far from Anet to conceal his shame.

CANTO X.

THE ARGUMENT.

The king returns to the army. Renews the siege. The duel between Turenne and d’Aumale. A famine in the city. The king relieves the inhabitants. Heaven at length recompenses his virtues. Truth descends to enlighten him. Paris opens her gates and the war is finished.

Those fatal moments lost in soft repose

Had waked the courage of the vanquished foes.

Rebellion breathed again, and faction’s schemes

Flushed the deluded throng with golden dreams.

Yet vain their hopes, for full with generous fame

And active zeal the martial Bourbon came,

Eager to reap the harvest he had sown

And make the field of conquest all his own.

Again his banners waved aloft in air,

And Paris saw them with renewed despair.

Again the chief before her walls appears

Scarce yet recovered from a siege’s fears;

Those very walls, where yet sulphurous smoke

With desolation marks the cannon’s stroke,

Which now with ruins had bestrewed the land

Had not compassion checked the hero’s hand;

When the bright angel, whose obedience still

Guardian of France, performs the Almighty’s will,

Bade his soft breast with tender mercies glow,

Withheld his arm, and stopped the falling blow.

Through the king’s camp no voice was heard around

But songs of mirth, and joy’s tumultuous sound.

While each brave warrior, anxious for the fray,

With eyes impatient marks the destined prey.

Meantime the haughty legions all dismayed,

Pressed round their prudent chief, and sued for aid;

When thus d’Aumale, of brave impetuous soul,

Abhorring counsel, and above control;

“We have not yet so learned our warfare here

To sneak to hiding-holes, and crouch for fear,

Cursed be the man whose counsel thither tends;

The foe comes forward—let us meet them, friends.

Not tamely wait till other vantage calls,

And rust in sloth beneath these coward walls;

On then, and conquer—fortune oft will spare

A smile to crown the efforts of despair.

Frenchmen attacked, already are o’erthrown—

Seek then your safety from yourselves alone.

Ye chiefs, who hear me, haste where glory calls,

Know, soldiers, know your leaders are your walls.”

He spoke—amazed the Leaguers heard each sound,

And turned their eyes in silence to the ground.

He blushed with shame, and in each leader’s face

Read their refusal, and his own disgrace.

“Ye will not follow then, ye heroes tame,

Nor wish I basely to survive the shame;

Well—shrink at dangers still—so shall not I —

Alone I go—to conquer or to die.”

He spoke; and from the city gate in martial pride

Boldly advanced with firm impetuous stride.

Before his steps the shrill-tongued herald went,

To hurl defiance at each warrior’s tent.

E’en to the king’s abode the herald came,

And challenged combat in the hero’s name.

“Ye daring sons of glory,” loud he cried,

“Now be your valour with your fortune tried,

D’Aumale in single combat waits you here,

By me he calls to arms—stand forth, appear.”

The valiant chiefs the desperate challenge heard,

Their zeal rekindling at each haughty word,

Each warrior stern, impatient for the fray,

Hoped the king’s voice, and hailed the glorious day.

Courage in all had formed an equal right.

Turenne alone found favour in his sight.

“Go,” said the prince, “chastise the daring foe,

France to thy hands shall all her glory owe;

Remember, soldier, ‘tis a glorious cause,

Thy own, thy king’s, thy country, and thy laws:

I’ll arm thee for the fight”—the monarch said,

And from his girdle loosed the shining blade.

When thus Turenne—”By this good sword I swear,

By thee, my king, each subject’s darling care,

Thus nobly honoured in my prince’s voice,

My ready zeal shall never shame thy choice.”

He spoke; while manly valour flushed his face,

And his heart sprung to meet the king’s embrace;

Then to the field, impetuous as a flood,

Rushed where d’Aumale the daring champion stood.

To Paris’ walls ran all the Leaguer-bands,

While round their king his faithful army stands.

With steadfast eye, which anxious care revealed,

Each side beheld their champion take the field.

While voice and gesture on each part unite

To warm each hero for the dreadful fight.

Meantime a cloud the vaulted sky deforms,

Pregnant it seemed with more than common storms,

While from its womb of darkness, strange to tell,

Burst forth in flames the monstrous brood of hell.

There was hot Zeal, which frantic leaps all bounds,

And Discord smiling on her thousand wounds,

There artful Policy designing fly,

With heart of falsehood and with scowling eye;

There the mad demon too of battles stood,

All Leaguer-gods and drunk with human blood.

Hither they haste, and land on Paris’ walls,

D’Aumale, their League, the cause, their interest calls.

When lo! an angel from the azure sky,

The faithful servant of the God on high,

Descended—round his head in splendour play

Beams that eclipse the lustre of the day.

On wings of fire he shaped his cheerful flight,

And marked his passage with a train of light.

A fruitful olive-branch one hand sustained,

Presage of happy days and peace regained.

His other hand upheld a flaming sword,

And shook the terrors of the eternal Lord;

That: sword with which the avenging angel armed

Smote the first-born—confounded and disarmed

Aghast at once shrank all the fiends of hell,

While to the ground their pointless weapons fell.

And resolution sickened all o’erthrown

By some resistless force from hands unknown.

So Dagon worshipped on Philistia’s shore,

Whose purple altars ran with human gore;

Before the ark with tottering ruin nods,

And the fallen idol owns the God of Gods.

Paris, the king, the army, heaven, and hell

Witnessed the combat—at the trumpets’ swell

On to the field the ready warriors came,

Conscious of valour, and a thirst for fame.

Their hands unused the cumbrous weight to wield,

Disdained to fight beneath the glittering shield,

The specious armour of inglorious knight

Proof ‘gainst all blows, and dazzling to the sight;

They scorned the equipment of such coward dress,

Which lengthening combat, made all danger less.

In courage firm advanced each haughty lord,

Man against man, and sword opposed to sword.

“O God of kings,” the royal champion cried,

“Judge thou my cause, and combat on my side;

Courage I vaunt not of, an idle name,

When heavenly justice bars the warrior’s claim;

Not from myself, I dare the glorious fight,

My God shall arm me who approves my right.”

To whom d’Aumale, “In deeds of valour known

Be my reliance on this arm alone.

Our fate depends on us, the mind afraid

Prays to his God in vain for needful aid.

Calm in the heavens He views our equal fight,

And smiling conquest proves the hero’s right.

“The god of wars is valour”—stern he cried,

And with a look of fell contemptuous pride

Gazed on his rival, whose firm modest mind

Spoke in his face, courageous and resigned.

Now sounds the trumpet, to the dubious fray

Rush the brave chiefs impatient of delay.

Whate’er of skill, whate’er of strength is known,

By turns each daring champion proves his own.

While all around the troops with anxious sight,

Half pleased, half frighted, view the desperate fight.

The flashing swords cast forth promiscuous rays,

Blinding the eye-sight with their trembling blaze,

As when the sun athwart the silver streams

Darts his strong light, and breaks in quivering beams.

The thronging crowds around with eyes intent

Look on amazed, and wait the dread event.

With nervous strength and fury uncontrolled,

Full of himself, and as a lion bold

Seems stern d’Aumale; the whiles his rival brave,

Nor proud of strength, nor passion’s headlong slave,

Collected in himself awaits his foe,

Smiles at his rage, and wards each furious blow.

In vain d’Aumale his utmost efforts tries,

His arm no more its wonted strength supplies,

While cool Turenne the combat’s rage renews,

Attacks with vigour, and with skill pursues,

Till proud d’Aumale sinks baffled to the ground,

And his hot blood flows reeking from the wound;

The champion falls; hell echoes with despair,

And dreadful sounds affright the troubled air.

“League, thou art all o’erthrown, the prize is won,

Bourbon, thou hast it now—our reign is done.”

The wretched people with lamenting cries

Attest their grief, and rend the vaulted skies;

D’Aumale all weak, and stretched upon the sand,

His glittering sword fallen useless from his hand,

Fainting, yet strives fresh vigour to regain,

And seems to threaten still, though all in vain.

Fain would he speak, while deep-drawn labouring breath

Denies him utterance in the pangs of death.

Shame’s quickening sense augments his furious air,

And his red eyeballs flash extreme despair.

He heaves, he sinks, he struggles all in vain,

His loosened limbs fall lifeless on the plain;

To Paris’ walls he lifts his closing eye,

Then dies indignant with a desperate sigh.

Mayenne, thou sawest him die, and at each look

Thy trembling nerves with shuddering horrors shook,

Then to thy mind thy own approaching fall

Came full, and thou wast conquered with d’Aumale.

The soldiers now to Paris’ gates repair,

And with slow steps their breathless hero bear.

Entranced with woe, all silent, and amazed

Upon the bleeding corpse the people gazed,

That deep-gashed wound, that front with gore bespread,

That mouth now fallen, and that unpropped head.

Those eyes which e’en in death tremendous stare,

While the fixed sight cast forth a livid glare,

They saw—compassion, shame, disgrace and fear

Choked up each cry, and dried the falling tear.

‘Twas solemn stillness all. When lo, a sound

Which teemed with horror pierced the welkin round.

For now the assailants with tumultuous cries

Demand the attack, and hope the promised prize.

Meantime the king, whom milder thoughts engage,

Calmed their high transports, and repressed their rage.

Stubborn howe’er, and adverse to his will,

Howe’er ungrateful, ‘twas his country still;

Hated by subjects whom he wished to save,

The mercies they denied, his virtue gave;

Pleased if his bounty could their crimes efface,

And force the wretched to accept of grace.

All desperate means he shuddered to employ,

He sought to conquer Paris, not destroy,

Famine perhaps, and lengthened scenes of woe

Might bend to law a proud mistaken foe;

Brought up in plenty, with abundance fed,

To ease and all the train of pleasures bred;

His people pressed by want’s impulsive sting

Might seek for mercy from their patriot king.

Rebellion’s sons, whom vengeance fain would spare,

Mistook for weakness Henry’s pious care.

His valour all forgot, in stubborn pride

They braved their master, and the king defied.

But when no more along the silver Seine

The freighted vessels bear the golden grain,

When desperate famine with her meagre train

With death her consort spreads her baneful reign,

In vain the wretch sends forth his piteous cries,

Looks up in vain for food and gasping dies.

The rich no more preserve their wasting health,

But pine with hunger in the midst of wealth.

No sound of joy the afflicted city knows,

No sound, but such as witnessed direful woes.

No more their heads with festive chaplets crowned,

In songs of joy they send the goblet round.

No wines provoke excess, no savoury meats

Quicken the jaded appetite. Through the lone streets,

Emaciate, pale, with dead dull ghastly glare

They wander victims of the fiend Despair.

The weak old man worn out with hunger’s rage

Sees his child perish in its cradled age;

Here drops a family entire, and there

Grovelling in dust, and worn with meagre care,

The haggard wretches in life’s latest stage

Fight for an offal with relentless rage.

Fain would the living prey upon the dead,

While the dry bones are kneaded into bread.

What will not misery do? This cursed repast

Promotes the work of death, and proves their last.

Meantime the priests, those reverend sons of prayer

Who preach up fasting which they never share,

Battened in plenty, deaf to hunger’s cries,

Which from their bounty met no wished supplies:

Yet went they forth with true fanatic zeal

To preach those virtues which they could not feel.

To the poor wretch, death hanging on his eyes,

Their liberal hand would ope the friendly skies;

To some they talked of vengeance sent from God,

And Henry punished with the Almighty’s rod;

Of Paris saved by heaven’s immediate love,

And manna dropping from the clouds above;

O’erawed by power, by artful priests deceived,

The crowd obsequious what they taught believed;

Submissive, half content, resigned their breath,

Nay, happy too, they triumphed in their death.

With foreign troops, to swell affliction’s tide

The famished city swarmed on every side;

Their breasts where pity never learned to glow

Lusted for rapine, and rejoiced in woe.

These came from haughty Belgia’s plains, and those

Helvetia’s monsters, hireling friends or foes.

To mercy deaf, on misery’s sons they press

And snatch the little from extreme distress.

Not for the soldier’s plunder, hidden store,

And heaped up riches, useful now no more;

Not urged by lust, and lured by beauty’s charms,

To force the virgin from her mother’s arms;

Their murderous torments raged for food concealed

Supports laid up, and pittance unrevealed.

A woman—God! must faithful memory tell

A deed which bears the horrid stamp of hell!

Their flinty hearts which never felt remorse

Robbed of her little all with brutal force.

One tender infant left, her late fond care

The frantic mother eyed with wild despair.

Then furious all at once, with murderous blade

Rushed where the dear devoted offspring played;

The smiling babe stretched forth its little arms;

Its helpless age, sweet looks, and guileless charms

Spoke daggers to her, whilst her bosom burns

With maddening rage, remorse, and love by turns.

Fain would she backward turn, and strives to shun

The wretched deed which famine wishes done.

Thrice did she raise the sword, and all dismayed

Thrice did she trembling drop the bloodless blade.

Till furious grown in hollow voice she cries:

“Cursed be the fruitful bed, and nuptial ties,

And thou unhappy offspring of my womb,

Brought into being to receive thy doom,

Didst thou accept this idle boon of life

To die by famine, or the tyrant’s strife?

Shouldst thou escape their unrelenting rage

Will pinching hunger spare thy softer age?

Then wherefore shouldst thou live? to weep in vain

A wretched wanderer o’er thy parent slain.

No, die with me, ere keen reflection knows

With bitter anguish to augment thy woes.

Give me—thou shalt—nor wait the formal grave,

Give back the blood thy helpless mother gave.

I will entomb thee, and the world shall see

A desperate crime unheard of yet in me.”

She stopped, and frantic with extreme despair

Plunged the keen poniard in her darling heir.

Hither by hunger drawn, the ruffians sped

While yet the mother on her infant fed.

Their eyes with eager joy the place survey

Like savage tigers gloating on their prey.

With furious wish they scan the mansion o’er,

Then rush in rage and burst the jarring door.

When, dreadful sight! a form with horror wild,

That seemed a woman, o’er a murdered child

Set all aghast, and in his reeking blood

Bathed her fell hands, and sought a present food.

“Yes,” cried the wretch, “the bloody deed is done,

Look there, inhuman monsters—’tis my son.

These hands had never worn this purple hue,

Nor this dear offspring perished but for you.

Now, ruffians, now with happy transport strike,

Feed on the mother and the babe alike.

Why heaves your breast with such unusual awe?

Have I alone offended nature’s law?

Why stare you all on me? such horrid food

Befits ye best, ye lustful sons of blood.”

Furious she spoke, and staring, desperate wild,

Plunged home the sword, and died upon her child.

The dreadful sight all power of speech controls,

And harrows up e’en these barbarian souls.

In dire amaze they cast their eyes around,

And fear an angry God in every sound;

While the whole city, at the scene dismayed,

Called loud for death, the wretches’ last kind aid.

E’en to the king the dreadful rumour ran,

His bowels yearned—he felt himself a man.

At each recital tender passions rose,

And tearful mercy wept a nation’s woes.

“O God,” he cried, “to whom my thoughts are bare,

Who knowest all I can, and all I dare,

To Thee I lift these hands unstained with blood,

Thou knowest I war not ‘gainst my country’s good.

‘To me impute not nor their crimes nor woes,

Let Mayenne say, from whence the ruin flows.

For all these ills let him advance the plea,

Which tyrants only use, necessity;

To be thy country’s foe, Mayenne, be thine,

To be its father, be that duty mine.

I am their father, and would wish to spare

Rebellious children with a father’s care.

Should my compassion then but madly arm

A desperate rebel to extend his harm?

Or must I lose my regal crown to show

Indulgent mercy on a subject foe?

Yes—let him live, and if such mercy cost

So dear a price as all my kingdoms lost,

Let this memorial dignify my grave,

To rule o’er foes I sought not, but to save.”

He spoke, and bade the storms of vengeance cease,

And hashed the tumults with returning peace.

Paris again her cheerful accents heard,

And willing troops obeyed their Henry’s word.

Now on the walls the throng impetuous swarms,

And all around, pale, trembling, wasted forms,

Stalk like the ghosts, which from the shades of night,

Compelled by magic force, revisit light,

When potent magi with enchantments fell

Invoke the powers below, and startle hell.

What admiration swelled each happy breast

To find a guardian in their foe professed!

By their own chiefs deserted and betrayed,

An adverse army lent a willing aid.

These pikes, which late dealt slaughter all around,

With desperate force no longer reared to wound,

Now kindly raised to second Henry’s care,

On their stained points the cheering nurture bear.

“Are these,” said they, “the monsters of mankind?

Are these the workings of a tyrant mind?

This the proud king, sad outcast of his God,

His passions’ easy slave, and people’s rod?

No, ‘tis the image of that power above,

Who acts with justice, and delights in love;

He triumphs, yet forgives, nor seeks to show

Revenge’s malice on a conquered foe.

Nay more, he comforts, and with royal grace

Extends assistance to a rebel race.

Be Discord banished from this glorious hour,

And our blood flow but to cement his power;

And steady zeal, no longer faction’s slave,

For him employ that life he wished to save.”

Such was the language Paris’ sons expressed,

While soft emotions filled each grateful breast.

But who alas! can strong assurance ground

On sickly friendship, which exhales in sound?

What hopes from such a race so light and vain,

Who only idly rise to fall again?

For now the priests, whose cursed designing arts

Had raised the flames of discord in their hearts,

Flocked round the people—”O ye sons of shame,

Cowards in war, and Christians but in name,

Is’t thus your weakness from your God would fly,

Think on the martyrs and resolve to die;

Think on the paths their holy army trod,

Nor for preserving life, offend your God.

Think of the crown religion’s sure to bring,

Nor wait for pardon from a tyrant king.

Fain would he lead your steady faith astray,

And warp your conscience to his dangerous way.

With zeal defend religion’s holy laws,

Death has no terrors in a Christian cause.”

So spake they vengeful, and with purpose dire

Blackened the king, till fell rebellion’s fire

Flamed out afresh, and full of desperate strife

They scorn to own the debt of forfeit life.

Midst all these clamours Henry’s virtue known

Pierced through the skies to God’s eternal throne.

Louis, from whom the Bourbon race begun,

Saw now the roll of time completely done,

When his son’s error should be purged away,

And pure religion beam her certain ray.

Then from his breast fled all the train of fears,

And faith established dried up all his tears.

Then soothing hope, and fond paternal love,

Proved his sure guides to heavenly paths above.

Before all time, in pure effulgence bright,

The God of gods had placed His throne of light;

Heaven is beneath His feet; power, wisdom, love,

Compose His essence; while the saints above,

Triumphant hosts, partake unfading joys,

Which neither grief disturbs, nor time destroys.

He speaks, the earth is changed, and frail mankind,

The sport of error, and in councils blind,

Events perceived, but causes undescried,

Accuse God’s wisdom in their selfish pride.

Such were the Goths of old, and barbarous Huns,

The numerous Turk, and Afric’s tawny sons.

All nations have their mighty tyrant, all

Rise in their turns, and hasten to their fall.

Yet not forever tyrants sway their land,

Oft falls the sceptre in more favoured hands,

And heaven’s vicegerents, in their actions known,

Dispense God’s favours from a royal throne.

Now Louis, fire of Bourbon’s glorious race,

In plaintive words addressed the throne of grace.

“Lord of the world, if from these azure skies

Thou lookest on mortals with considering eyes,

See how rebellion’s hateful treason stains

The generous sons on famed Lutetia’s plains.

If all unmindful of a subject’s awe,

They spurn their king, nor heed the royal law,

’Tis for Thy faith their ardent bosoms feel,

And disobedience springs from holy zeal.

Behold the king, of tried illustrious worth,

The terror, love, example of the earth,

With so much virtues couldst Thou form his mind,

To leave him pathless, and in errors blind?

Must Thy most perfect work forego all bliss,

And only Henry thank his God amiss?

Let him henceforth mistaken notions shun,

Give France a master and the Church a son.

The ready subjects to their monarch bring

And to his subjects restore the king.

So in Thy praise may all our hearts unite,

And a whole city worship God aright.”

His humble prayers the eternal Maker heard,

And spoke assent; earth trembled at His word:

The Leaguers stood amazed, and Henry’s breast

Glowed with that faith which God Himself impressed.

When from her mansion, near the eternal throne,

Truth dear to mortals, though sometimes unknown,

Descends a veil of clouds, with ample shade

Concealed from mortal ken the lovely maid,

Till by degrees, as at the approach of day,

The shadowy mist melts all dissolved away:

Full to the sight now all the goddess shone,

Clear as heaven’s light, and cheerful as the sun.

Henry, whose bosom from his early youth

Had felt the longing of eternal truth,

With faith avowed, and pure religion glows,

Which baffles man, and reason darkly knows;

With will convinced reveres the holy see,

Which always one, howe’er dispersed and free;

Beneath one chief adores in every place,

In all her happy saints, God’s wondrous grace.

Christ, for our sins who shed His purest blood,

Now for His chosen flock, the living food,

To the king’s self who bows with secret dread,

Shows his true godhead in the hallowed bread;

The monarch, deep impressed with holy awe,

Adores the wonders of the sacred law.

Now sainted Louis, at the Lord’s command,

The peaceful olive waving in his hand,

Came down from heaven; a ready guide to bring

To Paris’ opening walls their convert king.

In God’s own name, by whom all monarchs reign,

He entered Paris; while the Leaguer train

Bow submissive; e’en the meddling priests

Are dumb, and all around with jocund feasts

And cries of joy the vaulted heavens ring,

And hail at once a conqueror, father, king.

Henceforth all nations owned his regal state,

Too soon determined, as begun too late.

The Austrian trembled; and by Rome approved,

In Henry’s virtues was his Rome beloved.

Discord was exiled from Lutetia’s shore,

And Mayenne brave, a rebel now no more,

Himself his province, in subjection brings,

The best of subjects to the best of kings.

End of the Henriade.

Notes

[1] Henry IV. is called indifferently throughout the poem either Bourbon, or Henry. He was born at Pau in Béarn, December 13, 1553

[2] Henry III., King of France, one of the principal heroes of this poem, is always called Valois, the name of the royal branch to which he belonged.

[3] Henry IV., of France, son of Anthony, King of Navarre, who descended in a direct line from Robert, Count de Clermont, youngest son of Louis IX., or St. Louis of France. The posterity of his eldest son, Philip the Bold, failing in Henry III., three hundred years after the death of St. Louis, Henry de Bourbon became heir to the crown, as descended from the above-mentioned Count de Clermont, who married Beatrix, daughter of Agnes de Bourbon, heir of Arehemband, Lord of Bourbon in the middle of the thirteenth century.

[4] Charles, Duke of Mayenne, brother of Henry, Duke of Guise, who formed the League, a faction in France; who, under pretence of danger to the Church, made head against Henry III. of France, and, after his death, against Henry

de Bourbon, who gained great advantage over the Spaniards in confederacy with the League.

[5] Henry, Prince of Condé. He was the hope of the Protestant party: and died at Saint-Jean d’Angély, aged thirty-five years, in 1685.

[6] Duplessis-Mornay; the bravest, and most virtuous person belonging to the Protestant party. When Henry IV. changed his religion, Mornay reproached him in the severest manner, and retired from court. He was called the pope of the Huguenots.

[7] Several historians have described Henry IV. as wavering between the two religions; here he is described as he was, a man of honour, seriously endeavouring to inform himself, the friend of truth, the enemy of persecution, and detesting guilt wheresoever it appeared.

[8] Francis, Duke of Guise, commonly at that time called the Great Duke of Guise, was the father of Balafré. It was he, who with the cardinal, his brother, laid the foundations of the League. He had several great qualities, which, how

ever, we must take care not to dignify with the name of virtues.

[9] Catherine de Medici quarrelled with her son, Charles IX., toward the latter part of his life, and afterward with Henry III. She had so openly expressed her dislike of the government of Francis II. that she was suspected, though unjustly, of having hastened the death of that king.

[10] In the memoirs of the League is contained a letter from Catherine de Medici to the Prince of Condé, in which she returns him her thanks for having taken arms against the court.

[11] When she believed that the battle of Dreux was lost, and the Protestants had gained the victory, “Well, then,” she cried, “we will say our prayers in French.” She was also so weak as to believe in magic; witness the talismans which were found upon her after her death.

[12] The battle of Dreux was the first pitched battle between the Catholic and Protestant parties. It occurred in 1562.

[13] Anne de Montmorency, a man remarkable for his obstinacy, and the most unfortunate general of his time, was taken prisoner at Pavia and at Dreux, beaten at St. Quentin by Philip II., and was at length mortally wounded at the battle of St. Denis by an Englishman named Stuart, the person who had taken him prisoner at Dreux.

[14] This is the same Francis de Guise mentioned afterward, famous for the defence of Metz against Charles V. He was besieging the Protestants in Orleans in 1563, when Poltrot de Meré shot him in the back with a pistol loaded with three poisoned balls. He was forty-four years old when he died.

[15] Gaspard de Coligny, admiral of France, the son of Gaspard de Coligny, marshal of France, and of Louisa de Montmorency, sister of the constable, born at Châtillon, February 16, 1516.

[16] Margaret of Valois, sister of Charles IX., was married to Henry IV. in 1572, a few days before the massacre.

[17] Jeanne d’Albret, mother of Henry IV., who was drawn to Paris with the rest of the Huguenots, died almost suddenly between the marriage of her son and the feast of St. Bartholomew; but Caillart, her physician, and Desnoeuds, her surgeon, both zealous Protestants, who opened her body, found no marks of poison upon it.

[18] It was on the night between August 23 and 24, being the feast of St. Bartholomew in 1572, that this bloody tragedy was executed.

[19] The Count de Teligny, ten months before, had married the daughter of the admiral. He had so much sweetness in his countenance, that they who came first to kill him relented at the sight, but others more barbarous did the business.

[20] Besme was a German, a domestic of the house of Guise. This wretch being afterward taken by the Protestants, the Rochellers offered a price for him that they might tear him to pieces in the great square, but he was killed by a person named Bretanville.

[21] They suspended the admiral by the feet with an iron chain to the gibbet of Montfaucon. Charles IX. went, together with his court, to enjoy this horrid spectacle. One of his courtiers saying that the body of Coligny had an ill smell, the king answered like Vitellius: “The body of an enemy slain smells always well.”

[22] This was Henry, Duke of Guise, surnamed Balafré, who was slain at Blois. He was the brother of Duke Francis, who was assassinated by Poltrot.

[23] Anthony of Clermont-Renel, as he was shaving himself in his shirt, was massacred by the son of the Baron des Adrets, and by his own cousin, Bussy d’Amboise. The Marquis of Pardaillan was slain at his side.

[24] Guerchy defended himself a long time in the street, and slew many of the assassins till he was overpowered by numbers; but the Marquis of Lavardin had not time to draw his sword.

[25] Marsillac was a favourite of Charles IX., and had spent part of the night with him. The king had some inclination to save him, and had himself commanded him to sleep in the Louvre; but at length he let him depart, saying: “I see plainly it is God’s will that he should perish.”

Soubise was so called because he had married the heiress of that family. His own name was Dupont-Quellence. He defended himself a long time, and fell covered with wounds under the queen’s window. The ladies flocked thither to see his body, naked and bloody as it was, with a savage curiosity, worthy of that abominable court.

[26] I have heard the last Marshal of Fessé assert, that in his youth he knew an old man ninety years of age, who had been page to Charles IX., and who had often told him, that he himself loaded the carbine with which the king fired upon his Protestant subjects, the night of St. Bartholomew.

[27] De Caumont, who escaped the massacre, was the famous Marshal de la Force, who afterward gained such great reputation, and lived to the age of fourscore and four years.

[28] He never enjoyed his health after the affair of St. Bartholomew, and died about two years afterward, May 30, 1574, covered with his own blood, which gushed out from every pore.

[29] The reputation he had acquired at Jarnac and Montcontour, supported by French coin, had gained him the election as King of Poland in 1573. He succeeded Sigismund II., the last prince of the race of the Jagellons.

[30] Henry de Guise; surnamed Balafré: born in 1550, of Francis de Guise and Anne d’Este. He executed the grand project of the League formed by his uncle, the Cardinal of Lorraine, and begun by Francis, his father.

[31] He was assassinated in the king’s antechamber at Blois, on Friday, Dec. 23, 1588.

[32] Pope Sixtus V., who from having been a shepherd’s boy rose to the Papal throne.

[33] Henry, Count of Bouchage, younger brother of the Duke of Joyeuse, slain at Coutras. Once as he was passing by the convent of the Capuchins at Paris, at four o’clock in the morning, after having spent the night in a debauch, he fancied he heard the angels singing matins in the convent. Struck with this idea, he made himself a Capuchin, by the name of “Brother Angel.” Afterward, when he quitted the cowl, and took up arms against Henry IV., the Duke of Mayenne made him governor of Languedoc, duke and peer and marshal of France. At length he came to an accommodation with the king: but as he was one day standing with his majesty in a balcony, under which a great multitude were assembled, the king said to him; “Cousin, these people seem delighted with seeing an apostate and a renegade together.” This speech of Henry’s sent him again to his convent, where he died.

[34] The Chevalier d’Aumale, brother of the Duke d’Aumale, of the house of Lorraine, a young man of impetuous spirit. with many shining qualities; he headed all the sallies during the siege of Paris, and inspired the inhabitants with his own courage and confidence.

[35] Sixtus V., when he was cardinal of Montalto, counterfeited the idiot so artfully for fifteen years that he was commonly called the Ass of Ancona. It is well known by what contrivances he obtained the papacy, and with what haughtiness he governed.

[36] During the wars in the thirteenth century, between the emperors and the popes, Gregory IX. had the hardiness not only to excommunicate the Emperor Frederick II., but even to offer the imperial crown to Robert, the brother of St. Louis. The Parliament of France assembled, answered in the name of the king, that the pope could not lawfully depose a sovereign, nor the brother of a king of France receive from the hand of the pope, a crown over which neither he nor St. Peter had any right. In 1570 the sitting parliament issued a famous arrêt against the bull “in caena domini.” The celebrated remonstrances made by the parliament under Louis XI., on the subject of the pragmatic sanction, are well known, as are those likewise which they made to Henry III. against the scandalous bull of Sixtus the Fifth, which called the reigning family a generation of bastards, etc., and the continual fortitude with which they always maintained our liberties against the pretensions of the court of Rome.

[37] Policy and Discord.

[38] On Jan. 17, 1589, the faculty of Theology in Paris awarded that famous decree, by which it was declared that the subject was released from his oath of allegiance, and might lawfully make war upon the king. Lefèvre, the dean, and some of the wisest refused to sign it. Afterward, when the Sorbonne were set at liberty, they revoked this decree, which the tyranny of the League had extorted from some of their society. All the religious orders, who like the Sorbonne, had declared themselves against the royal family, like them retracted. But would they have retracted had the house of Lorraine succeeded?

[39] When Henry III. and the King of Navarre appeared in arms before Paris, most of the monks put on armour and mounted guard with the citizens. This passage in the poem nevertheless alludes to the procession of the League, in which twelve hundred armed monks were reviewed in Paris, having William Rose, bishop of Senlis, at their head. The fact is mentioned here, though it did not happen till after the death of Henry III.

[40] It is not meant that there were but sixteen individuals listed in the faction, as the Abbé Legendre has remarked in his little history of France; but they were called “the Sixteen,” from the sixteen quarters of Paris which they governed by their spies and their emissaries.

[41] The Sixteen were long independent of the Duke of Mayenne. One of them, named Normand, said once in the duke’s chamber, that they who had made the duke could easily unmake him.

[42] On January 16, 1589, Bussy Leclerc, one of the Sixteen, who from a fencing master had become governor of the Bastille, and chief of the faction, entered the grand chamber of the parliament, followed by fifty guards. He presented to them a request, or rather an order to compel them to renounce the royal family. On their refusal he himself imprisoned in the Bastille all those who opposed his party. There he made them fast upon bread and water, that they might be the readier to ransom themselves, for which reason he was called the Grand Penitentiary of the Parliament.

[43] On Friday, Nov. 15, 1591, Barnaby Brisson, a person of great knowledge, who performed the duty of chief president in the absence of Achilles de Harlay: Claude Larcher, counsellor of the Inquests, and Jean Tardif, counsellor of the Châtelet, were hanged in the little Châtelet by order of the Sixteen.

[44] The Dukes of Guise wanted to establish the Inquisition in France.

[45] It is well known how many illustrious prisoners the Cardinals Richelieu and Mazarin confined at Vincennes.

[46] It would fill a volume should we specify the services done to the State by the Montmorency family.

Among many great men of this name, Guy de la Trimouille is particularly alluded to. He was surnamed “the Valiant”; carried the royal standard: and refused the high constable’s sword in the reign of Charles VI.

Gaston de Foix, Duke of Nemours, and nephew of Louis XII. He was slain at the famous battle of Ravenna, having received fourteen wounds and defeated the enemy.

[47] France owed her preservation to this great man, in the reign of Charles V. He conquered Castile, placed Henry de Transtamare upon the throne of Peter the Cruel, and was constable of France, and Castile.

[48] Joan d’Arc, known by the name of the Maid of Orleans. She was servant-maid at an inn; and born at the village of Domremy on the Meuse: being superior to her sex in strength of body and of mind, she was employed by the Count de Dunois to retrieve the affairs of Charles VII., taken prisoner in a sally at Compiègne in 1430, conducted to Rouen, tried as a sorceress in an ecclesiastical court, and burned by the English.

[49] Cardinal Mazarin was obliged to leave the kingdom in 1651; notwithstanding that he had the entire government of the queen regent. Cardinal Richelieu, on the contrary, always maintained his situation in spite of his enemies, and of the king, who was disgusted at his behaviour.

[50] Colbert was detested by the people. That blind and savage monster would have dug his body out of the ground; but the approbation of men of sense, which at length prevailed, has rendered his name forever dear, and respectable.

[51] Louis XIV.

[52] Louis de Bourbon, generally called the Great Condé; and Henry, Viscount de Turenne, have been looked upon as the greatest generals of their time. They have both gained very important victories, and acquired glory even in their defeats. The Prince of Condé’s genius seemed, as it was said, more proper for a day of battle, and that of Turenne for a whole campaign. It is certain at least, that Turenne gained, considerable advantages over the Great Condé at Gien, Etampes, Paris, Arras, and the battle of Dunes. We shall not, however, attempt to determine which was the greater man.

[53] The Marshal de Catinat was born in 1637; he gained the battles of Staffarde and Marseilles: and obeyed, without reluctance, or murmuring, the Marshal de Villeroi, who, sent him orders without consulting him. He resigned his command with the utmost composure; never complained of any person’s treatment, asked nothing of the king, and died like a true philosopher at his country-seat at St. Gratien. He never augmented or diminished his estate, and never for a moment acted unworthy of his character as a man of temperance and moderation.

[54] The Marshal de Vauban, born in 1633, the greatest engineer that ever lived. He repaired upon a new plan of his own no less than three hundred old fortifications, and built thirty-three. He conducted fifty-three sieges, and was present at one hundred and forty actions. He left behind him at his death twelve manuscript volumes full of designs for the good of the State: none of which has ever yet been executed. He was a member of the Academy of Sciences, and did more honour to it than any other person, by rendering mathematics subservient to the advantage of his country.

[55] Francis Henry de Montmorency, who took the name of Luxembourg; Marshal of France, and both duke and peer of the realm. He gained the battle of Cassel, under the direction of Monsieur, the brother of Louis XIV., and won the celebrated victories of Mons, Fleurus, Steinkirk and Neerwindin, where he acted as commanding officer. He was confined in the Bastille, and exceedingly ill treated by the ministry.

[56] It was the author’s original design to mention no living character through the whole poem: and the rule proposed has only been deviated from in favour of the Marshal Duke de Villars. He gained the battle of Friedlingen, and that of the first Höchstädt. It is remarkable that in this engagement he posted himself on the same spot of ground which the Duke of Marlborough afterward occupied, when he won that very signal victory of the second Höchstädt, so fatal to France. Upon resuming the command of the army, the marshal was afterward engaged in the famous battle of Blangis, or Malplaquet, in which twenty thousand of the enemy were slain; and the loss of which was owing to the marshal’s being wounded. In 1712, when the enemy threatened to proceed to Paris, and it was deliberated whether Louis XIV. should not quit Versailles, the Marshal de Villars defeated Prince Eugene at Denain, dislodged the enemy from their post at Marchienne, raised the siege of Landrecy, took Douay, Quesnoy, and Bouehain at discretion, and afterward agreed upon a peace at Rastadt in the king’s name, with the same Prince Eugene, the emperor’s plenipotentiary.

[57] This poem was composed in the infancy of Louis XV.

[58] A true portrait of the Duke of Orleans.

[59] He was declared by the parliament, which continued attached to him, lieutenant-general of the state and kingdom of France.

[60] The Earl of Egmont, son of Admiral Egmont, who was beheaded at Brussels, together with the Count de Horn.

[61] John d’Aumont, Marshal of France, who did wonders at the battle of Ivry, was the son of Peter d’Aumont and Frances de Sully, an heiress of the ancient family of Sully. He served under Henry II., Francis II., Charles II., Henry III., and Henry IV.

[62] Henry de Gontaut de Biron, Marshal of France, and grand master of the artillery. He was a great warrior, commanded the corps de reserve at Ivry, and was very instrumental in gaining the victory.

[63] Charles Gontaut de Biron, son of the former. He conspired afterward against Henry IV. and was beheaded in the court of the Bastille in 1602.

[64] Henry de la Tour d’Auvergne, Viscount of Turenne, Marshal of France. Henry the Great married him to Charlotte de la Mark, princess of Sedan, in 1591. The marshal went on the wedding night to take Stenay by assault.

[65] Europe and Asia.

[66] Anet was built by Henry II. for Diana de Poitiers, whose ciphers are intermixed with all the ornaments of that castle. It is situated not far from the plains of Ivry.

[67] Gabrielle d’Estrées, of an ancient family in Picardy, daughter and granddaughter of the grand master of the ordnance; espoused to the Lord of Liancourt, and since Duchess of Beaufort. Henry IV. became violently in love with her during the civil wars; he went sometimes in a private dress to see her. One day he even disguised himself as a peasant, passed through the midst of the enemy’s guards, and arrived at her house, not without some danger of being taken.

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