Classic Poem

The deed is done — fair Austria's suff'rings end,
The royal victim finds in death a friend!
His cold embrace has dried a widow's tears,
And calm'd a mother's agonizing fears.

Ill-fated Queen ! to pomp and mis'ry born,
How bright the prospect of thy life's gay morn!
No tempests threaten'd, nor no clouds were seen,
When France with rapture hail'd thee Beauty's Queen!
Lovely in youth, the pride of Austria's plain,
With smiling pleasure sporting in thy train!
To pay thee homage princes seem'd to vie,
And nations felt the magic of thine eye;
To polish'd courts thou gav'st a graceful ease,
And pleasing others, seem'd thyself to please.
When fate to Bourbon gave the Gallic crown,
Thou mad'st his couch of care, a bed of down,
Strewing his throne that mask'd unnumber'd woes,
With the rich perfume of th' ambrosial rose.
Plann'd by thy hands, Trianon's bow'rs were form'd,
Grac'd by thy person, by thy taste adorn'd!
An earthly Paradise it seem'd to be,
The sweet abode of happiness and thee.
Thus gay in youth, of ev'ry joy possest,
What mortal thought thee not supremely blest?
Who could foresee these visions of delight
Were doom'd to vanish from the astonish'd sight?
Who could foretell the low'ring storm from far,
And the dread carnage of intestine war;
Or who unfold the awful page of fate,
To see the wreck of all that once was great?
To view that form, by thousands so ador'd!
Torn from the bosom of her murder'd lord;
Condemn'd to suffer each extreme of grief,
And doom'd to hope in death alone relief —
Denied the comfort of a friend t' impart
The last sad dictates of a breaking heart;
Denied to gaze upon her children's face,
And fold her offspring in a last embrace.
Her neck expos'd — her throbbing bosom bare,
And sheer'd by ruffian hands her lovely hair!
With patient fortitude she pass'd along,
And smil'd contempt on the insulting throng.
The fatal steel that robb'd a king of life,
Now ends the mis'ry of his suff'ring wife;
And, drench'd in blood, completes the horrid scene,
A martyr'd Monarch, and a murder'd Queen!
Cold-blooded fiends! — who vent your coward rage
On helpless woman, infancy, and age!
Could not her sex, could not her beauty plead,
Against this cruel, this unmanly deed?
If you must wade through one eternal flood
Of orphan princes' tears, and monarchs' blood!
Why was your brooding vengeance long suppress'd
Like slumb'ring serpents in a fury's breast?
Was death postpon'd with hell's most cunning art,
To study torments that might rack the heart?
Why? if prejudg'd your victim was to die,
Why not in pity spare a widow's sigh?
She should have bled when royal Bourbon fell,
And yelling monsters shook the vaults of hell;
When kindred daemons, from their dark domain,
Th' infernal yell re-echoed back again!
In one embrace the hapless pair had died,
While outrag'd nature hid her face, and sigh'd!

But manly vengeance who can hope to find,
In the base workings of a traitor's mind —
To teach the child to blast its mother's fame,
Would make the untaught savage blush with shame;
A crime like this ne'er stain'd his manly crest,
Engender'd only in a Frenchman's breast.
Accursed Paris! rich alone in crimes,
The doom'd Gomorrah of our modern times!
If Heav'n, for reasons mortals cannot scan,
Permits thy plague to scourge the race of man,
It still reserves th' avenging Angel's rod,
To crush those wretches who defy their God!
Who, impious, dare their Maker's work deform,
May raise the tempest — but will feel the storm;
That dreadful storm, in loud and awful roar,
Shall make the Atheist tremble and adore!
These crimes which we with shudd'ring horror view,
Our sons unborn will scarcely think were true:
May they in all their struggles to be free,
Ne'er prostitute the name of liberty:
Adore her maxims, fram'd mankind to bless,
But hate the fiend that counterfeits her dress;
And under cover of that fair disguise,
Betrays the honest, and deceives the wise.
Ne'er may ferocious fanatics succeed,
The wicked triumph, and the virtuous bleed!
But may mankind, by Gallia's horrors taught,
Think even blessings much too dearly bought,
If through whole seas of blood they're doom'd to wade,
Risking the substance, to obtain the shade!
May they the French philosophers despise!
Who, vainly witty, impotently wise,
Deride the pious, and mislead the good,
Preaching philanthropy, to practise blood!

The murder'd dead must claim compassion's tear,
Though free from human hope, or human fear!
But the poor royal orphans left behind,
Excite the sympathy of human kind;
While pity, rising from their parents' tomb,
Laments the blameless children's wretched doom.

Unhappy heir to royalty and pain!
Whose lot a weeping cherub might complain;
Depriv'd of ev'ry comfort that can suage,
The hourly suff'rings of thy tender age:
No mother's anxious bosom to impart
The finer feelings to thy pliant heart,
And early teach thy infant breast to shew,
A glowing sympathy at other's woe:
No father's counsels to direct thy youth,
To tread the paths of virtue and of truth —

Unhappy prince! to savage monsters left,
Of kingdom, parents, ev'ry hope bereft!
To Heav'n's high throne thy infant hands extend,
By man deserted, find in God a friend!
He never leaves the orphan to despair,
And misery's helpless children are his care!
And now, young king, with strict attention hear
Advice that seldom meets the royal ear;
But you adversity so early knew,
Her sternest lessons will appear too true.
Detest the flatt'rers which all courts infest;
Let not their poison taint your youthful breast;
Nor think the monarch can be serv'd by those,
Who are of justice, and of truth, the foes.
With fervent zeal imbibe in early youth
The sacred maxims of eternal truth;
Let interest ne'er seduce you from her laws,
Nor pawn your honour for a world's applause!
And should prosperity her balm bestow,
Still think how nearly she's allied to woe:
Not the mild influence of his reign could save
Your royal father from a timeless grave;
Not all the splendour which adorn'd his crown,
That loyal zeal which gave to France renown!
His private virtues — plenitude of pow'r,
Could shield a good man from misfortune's hour:
Among the glitt'ring throngs that kings attend,
The mildest sov'reign could not find a friend.
Then where's the prince, amidst his pomp, shall say,
" These joys, this pow'r, can never fade away;
" All that I hear confirms my brilliant state,
" Born to command, be happy, and be great! "

Do you, young prince, from sad experience wise,
Learn the false glare of grandeur to despise;
And when this dreadful tempest is o'erblown,
And Heav'n has plac'd you on your father's throne,
Let not the mem'ry of your infant years,
Your parents' murder, and your sister's tears!
Be quite effac'd by pomp of regal state,
Nor e'er forget the danger to be great —
That thought will tend to fortify your throne,
Protect your subjects' rights, and guard your own.