XXXI.
And when, through many a league of chase and toil,
With panting steed, red spur, and sheathless sword,
At last they reach'd the stranger's sheltering soil;
They saw their country, where they saw its lord.
Proudly they fenced the Bourbons' couch and board;—
Better the exile's dungeon, or his tomb,
Than the base triumphs of the rebel's sword.
They saw the lightning gathering through the gloom;
They knew the wrath would come,—and sternly did it come.
XXXII.
I love not war, too oft the mere, mad game
That tyrants play to keep themselves awake.
But 'tis not war—it earns a nobler name—
When men gird on the sword for conscience' sake,
When country, king, faith, freedom are the stake.
There is a power in man that passeth show.
England, if e'er ambition think to shake
The holy diadem from thy freeborn brow,
Up, in the name of Heaven! and strike the freeman's blow.
XXXIII.
Yet they were happier in that foreign soil,
The exile's home, perhaps to be his grave;—
Than those who came to revel in their spoil.
The feast was over in the bandit's cave,
The first, hot, wild excess had ceased to rave;—
And now 'twas hush'd debate and jealous fear;
The ruffian's hand the ruffian's heart misgave;
And crowded close, with sword half drawn, quick ear,
They seem'd the thunder-peal, the avenging hosts, to hear.
XXXIV.
Aye; 'twere a lesson worth an age of man,
To look upon that council chill and late—
The grand Impostor, now with conscience wan,
Waiting his own, who fix'd an empire's fate;
Sunk to the dust; for terror knows not state.
Round him of glaring visages a cloud,
Like naked passions, shame, ire, horror, hate;
Each taunting each, all on their tempter loud,
All seeing in their steps the scaffold and the shroud.
XXXV.
The pomp has deepen'd. Thro' the Louvre-arch
Swells out the horse and foot's unwearied tide;
A sheet of steel the close-lock'd column's march,
Waving, as plants the mass its solid stride;
A following cloud, the squadron's plume of pride
Floating above.—But soon and statelier bound
A troop, to whom, as down the lines they ride,
The deep drums roll, the standards stoop profound,
The upturn'd trumpets give the rich, saluting sound.
XXXVI.
France is herself again;—bridge, roof, and wall,
Are lined with faces struggling for the show.
The pageant comes;—uncapp'd and husn'd are all;
It comes, with many a pause, expanding slow
In splendour, like the summer's showery bow;
A press of horse and herald, lance and vane;
And pages piled in gold and scarlet-glow
On chariot roofs; and barbs with ribbon'd mane;
And chieftains spurring round, with star, and staff, and chain.
XXXVII.
Marshal and duke, in flank, and front, and rear,
An inner cohort, guard the Sovereign,
And that fair, jewell'd form—his daughter dear,
The royal Angoulême; and where the train
Halt for the moment, bursts the shout again,
And swell the trumpets lifted to the sky.
They move,—and still arise the shout and strain,
And all along their march is ear and eye,
Till in the Abbey's porch the last deep concords die.
XXXVIII.
The pile is full; and oh, what splendours there
Rush, in thick tumult, on the entering eye!
The Gothic shapes, fantastic, yet austere;
The altar's crown of seraph imagery;
Champion and king that on their tombstones lie,
Now cluster'd deep with beauty's living bloom;
And glanced from shadowy stall and alcove high,
Like new-born light, through that mysterious gloom,
The gleam of warrior steel, the toss of warrior plume.
XXXIX.
The organ peals; at once, as some vast wave,
Bend to the earth the mighty multitude,
Silent as those pale emblems of the grave
In monumental marble round them strew'd.
Low at the altar, forms in cope and hood
Superb with gold-wrought cross and diamond twine,
Life in their upturn'd visages subdued,
Toss their untiring censers round the shrine,
Where on her throne of clouds the Virgin sits divine.
XL.
But, only kindred faith can fitly tell
Of the high ritual at that altar done,
When clash'd the arms and rose the chorus-swell,
Then sank,—as if beneath the grave 'twere gone;
Till broke the spell the mitred abbot's tone,
Deep, touching, solemn, as he stood in prayer,
A dazzling form upon its topmost stone,
And raised, with hallowed look, the Host in air,
And bless'd with heavenward hand the thousands kneeling there.
And when, through many a league of chase and toil,
With panting steed, red spur, and sheathless sword,
At last they reach'd the stranger's sheltering soil;
They saw their country, where they saw its lord.
Proudly they fenced the Bourbons' couch and board;—
Better the exile's dungeon, or his tomb,
Than the base triumphs of the rebel's sword.
They saw the lightning gathering through the gloom;
They knew the wrath would come,—and sternly did it come.
XXXII.
I love not war, too oft the mere, mad game
That tyrants play to keep themselves awake.
But 'tis not war—it earns a nobler name—
When men gird on the sword for conscience' sake,
When country, king, faith, freedom are the stake.
There is a power in man that passeth show.
England, if e'er ambition think to shake
The holy diadem from thy freeborn brow,
Up, in the name of Heaven! and strike the freeman's blow.
XXXIII.
Yet they were happier in that foreign soil,
The exile's home, perhaps to be his grave;—
Than those who came to revel in their spoil.
The feast was over in the bandit's cave,
The first, hot, wild excess had ceased to rave;—
And now 'twas hush'd debate and jealous fear;
The ruffian's hand the ruffian's heart misgave;
And crowded close, with sword half drawn, quick ear,
They seem'd the thunder-peal, the avenging hosts, to hear.
XXXIV.
Aye; 'twere a lesson worth an age of man,
To look upon that council chill and late—
The grand Impostor, now with conscience wan,
Waiting his own, who fix'd an empire's fate;
Sunk to the dust; for terror knows not state.
Round him of glaring visages a cloud,
Like naked passions, shame, ire, horror, hate;
Each taunting each, all on their tempter loud,
All seeing in their steps the scaffold and the shroud.
XXXV.
The pomp has deepen'd. Thro' the Louvre-arch
Swells out the horse and foot's unwearied tide;
A sheet of steel the close-lock'd column's march,
Waving, as plants the mass its solid stride;
A following cloud, the squadron's plume of pride
Floating above.—But soon and statelier bound
A troop, to whom, as down the lines they ride,
The deep drums roll, the standards stoop profound,
The upturn'd trumpets give the rich, saluting sound.
XXXVI.
France is herself again;—bridge, roof, and wall,
Are lined with faces struggling for the show.
The pageant comes;—uncapp'd and husn'd are all;
It comes, with many a pause, expanding slow
In splendour, like the summer's showery bow;
A press of horse and herald, lance and vane;
And pages piled in gold and scarlet-glow
On chariot roofs; and barbs with ribbon'd mane;
And chieftains spurring round, with star, and staff, and chain.
XXXVII.
Marshal and duke, in flank, and front, and rear,
An inner cohort, guard the Sovereign,
And that fair, jewell'd form—his daughter dear,
The royal Angoulême; and where the train
Halt for the moment, bursts the shout again,
And swell the trumpets lifted to the sky.
They move,—and still arise the shout and strain,
And all along their march is ear and eye,
Till in the Abbey's porch the last deep concords die.
XXXVIII.
The pile is full; and oh, what splendours there
Rush, in thick tumult, on the entering eye!
The Gothic shapes, fantastic, yet austere;
The altar's crown of seraph imagery;
Champion and king that on their tombstones lie,
Now cluster'd deep with beauty's living bloom;
And glanced from shadowy stall and alcove high,
Like new-born light, through that mysterious gloom,
The gleam of warrior steel, the toss of warrior plume.
XXXIX.
The organ peals; at once, as some vast wave,
Bend to the earth the mighty multitude,
Silent as those pale emblems of the grave
In monumental marble round them strew'd.
Low at the altar, forms in cope and hood
Superb with gold-wrought cross and diamond twine,
Life in their upturn'd visages subdued,
Toss their untiring censers round the shrine,
Where on her throne of clouds the Virgin sits divine.
XL.
But, only kindred faith can fitly tell
Of the high ritual at that altar done,
When clash'd the arms and rose the chorus-swell,
Then sank,—as if beneath the grave 'twere gone;
Till broke the spell the mitred abbot's tone,
Deep, touching, solemn, as he stood in prayer,
A dazzling form upon its topmost stone,
And raised, with hallowed look, the Host in air,
And bless'd with heavenward hand the thousands kneeling there.