The noble gaily lived, in battle brave,
Tyrant o'er others, at Versailles a slave.
Thus were the seeds of revolution sown,
When vice, reign after reign, bedimm'd the crown.
Great Rabelais, whose mine of wit ne'er fails,
Whose genius oft a mystic curtain veils,
Of Chinon was; at rubbish of the schools
Laugh'd he, at lazy monks, and formal fools;
His satire, safe beneath a motley dress
Of words, struck those he feared, not hated less.
Who lived at Ussé? certes, gallant knights;
But here tradition gives uncertain lights.
The lords of Saintré, mighty in romance,
Famous among the chivalry of France;
Burning for tournaments if there they dwelt,
At times ennui the lively heroes felt.
(Nobles in England, sober country, draw
Their rank not from knight-errantry but law)
But, no fictitious hero, great Vauban
There made improvements on a soldier's plan :
Generals, though eminent, have small applause
For raising terraces, or framing laws.
A monarch, sensual and religious, lived
At Chambord; there his monks and minions thrived.
There Francis, squire of dames, display'd a show
Of chivalry, inimitable now.
What yet of Chambord rests, where Pleasure breath'd
Sweet poison? towers fantastically wreath'd,
And walls so richly wrought, they seem to be
The work of fairies for their revelry.
Gone are the habitants, monks, minions, dames;
Read, if you please, in annals old, their names.
As Talleyrand's terse wit his power secured,
By craft, that revolution taught, matured,
A tract, a song, while volumes useless are,
Might save a nation millions or a war.
Who made Belshazzar tremble at his feasts?
Who paled the cheeks of princes and of priests?
Who in the exercise of mind has shown
A facile energy that's all his own?
Courier; his frequent arrows, barb'd with wit,
Feather'd with ridicule, the mighty hit.
Would he had lived to win a brighter wreath
Of Fame; France justly may lament his death.
Whate'er he wrote, in earnestness or sport,
Had nerv'd her language and improved her court.
And Béranger-how brilliant is his song,
Even more than La Fontaine in humour strong—
Pearls of great price among his roses threw,
Thoughts dear to freedom and to nature true.
He for the popular taste in artless phrase
Cloth'd his fine raillery; France loves his lays;
And labour great it cost him to attain
That which is her delight, his easy vein.
Well! Gabrielles now are rare, and seigneurs bred
Legitimately, female Carlists wed.
In this, their "pays de Cocagne," they drink
And eat their fill, do any thing but think.
And what may thought accomplish ?-can it show
That men are happier here the more they know?
Louis de Béchameil, the best of mayors,
Invented here the sauce his name that bears,
Live then, as gentlemen of Tours, or flies
That flash above the Loire their thousand dyes.
Down the broad sunny stream light vessels sail,
And lighter loungers crowd the Rue Royale,
While those, whose game at soldiers with dismay
Europe beheld, at harmless billiards play.
Priest-ridden they are not, with wines to cheer
Their hearts, they do not Czar or devil fear.
Sad Carlists some, yet hospitable bores,
to whigs and heretics their doors.
Woods and demesnes, more than the painted thing
Called ceremony, please the nation's king.
Royalty, since the civic crown she wore,
Grows by compression mightier than before.
And wiser Louis-Philippe is as great
As the great Louis in his god-like state.
While o'er his head the flag tri-coloured floats, The burgher laughs at draw-bridges and moats, And nothing fears, (her hold how Power relaxes,) Except the censor's ferula and taxes.
Long since the battle storm its rage has spent:
No movement now-we trust there is content.
Self-interest more enlighten'd, ('tis a change,
This work of truth,) now takes a wider range.
Bold Albion, chivalrous France, no more opposed
Like eagles, or contentious lions roused,
Strive nobly to excel in arts of peace
Each other; may such contests never cease.
Warriors in courts their rival warriors greet,
No more like adverse thunder-clouds to meet;
And fame, that hover'd o'er the victor's car,
Proclaims her hero's milder virtues far.
"Nothing but thunder”* pleased us once; that past, Astræa may reign o'er the world at last.
Yet will the Northern light with aspect red
Its influence malign o'er Europe shed;
Poland is crush'd: for Italy what hope?
None from the crown'd at Milan, or the Pope!
Unless the moral power that in our day
Mouth-honour'd is, may those who hate it sway!
Actions with theory but ill accord,
When dazzles in Imperial hands the sword:
And fêtes Circæan, it must be confest,
Will soon relax the virtues of the best.
Thus rush into the lake the streamlets rude,
By the circumfluous orb to be subdued.
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