Classic Poem

OR, LOUIS PHILIPPE IN 1832 .

Le lion musele

What time the People's Lion, in July,
Threw at the Louvre a blood-stained sceptre by,
Earth from her breast to Freedom's cry gave vent;
Thrice as it rose the willing skies were rent
Then, drunk with hope, 'mid din of arms I saw
On tottering thrones Kings turning pale with awe:
Be silent, Earth! from fear, O Kings, be free!
Muzzled, poor Lion, muzzled shalt thou be!

See'st thou not, Lion, lord of the Bastille,
This royal mendicant to thee would kneel —
To mount a throne, his kindred disavows,
Kisses thy claw, and as thy vassal bows?
Our Judas' tribe ungratefully rejoice
To lend persuasion to his honeyed voice;
Philippe cajoles — no aid hath Giles for thee —
Muzzled, poor Lion, muzzled shalt thou be!

Keen for the garbage, pressing at his back,
Lo, where the courtiers come, a hungry pack!
The badge of victory they have dared assume,
They, at whose touch thy laurels cease to bloom
Before the assassins in our tyrant's pay,
Our sun already hath withdrawn his ray;
Woe, woe for us! the Doctrinaires I see —
Muzzled, poor Lion, muzzled shalt thou be!

Trimming, to suit their views who o'er us rule,
The metaphysics of that torturous school,
Their stern Black Code they substitute for law,
Stamped with the seal of thy heroic claw
Oath of a slave — perchance an heir-loom made —
They in set form have tyranny arrayed;
This would'st thou, this? would'st martial law decree?
Muzzled, poor Lion, muzzled shalt thou be!

Thus, then, O Freedom, to my songs so dear,
Like pleasant dream I see thee disappear!
Perrier is master, France unwieldy grown,
The yoke of dwarfs a giant people own
Thee Seguier sentences, and Gisquet smites;
Lobau hath drenched; and vain Viennet writes
With ass's kick his insults on thy brow:
Art thou not muzzled, O poor Lion, now!

Castilian, Tartar, little need ye fear;
Small part have ye in what concerns us here;
'Tis but a miser who would have us toil,
That he a Royal orphan might despoil;
And that this deed of baseness might be done,
Through Paris' streets, alas! our blood hath run!
Die, Poland, die! O Belgium, mourn thy lot!
Our Lion now is muzzled — is he not?

I in these crimes, O Frenchmen, took no part;
To you my Muse was ever true at heart;
For thrice five years she branded with disgrace
Tyrants, and Tartuffes — that detested race
Now yours, O children, be my dream, my lute!
Of grief I die — my voice must soon be mute;
Ah! if our sun should ever rise again,
Remember well the muzzled Lion then!

If, as 'tis said, France needs a Monarch's sway,
'Mid Scottish lakes there is a child at play;
To Salic land recall him — him alone —
For to him only crime is yet unknown
Grouped round his cradle, let all France decree
The common lot; that, grown to manhood, he
Forth to the frontier may our Lion guide,
His muzzle then in freedom thrown aside.