A FRENCH POET ON LOUIS XVIII.
Descend, ye Muses, one and all,
Obedient to a Frenchman’s call.
Which of you e’er refused to sing
The feats of a most Christian king,
Or help to raise the Oriflamme
Above the towers of Notre-Dame?
Three cities, three without one blow,
Fell at the trumpet of Boileau:
He would have play’d without a line
The devil with the Philistine,
No need, against him to prevail,
The weightier broadsword of Corneille.
Voltaire struck down with flash of pen
The League, the Iberian, and Mayenne,
And, if ye help me, with a touch
I doubt not I can do as much.
Then shall ye see the lilies bloom
Upon the seven hills of Rome.
Our Louis never shows the scars
His doublet suffer’d under Mars,
Tho’ many creatures daily fell
Before him ere the vesper bell,
He said, on looking down his file
Of steel and silver with a smile,
Far better thus than bid our men go
For empty glory to Marengo.