THE ARGUMENT.
After the death of Henry III., the Leaguers assemble in Paris to elect a king. In the midst of their debates, Henry IV. storms the city. The assembly is dismissed. The members that composed it repair to the ramparts. Description of the ensuing battle.
In France an ancient custom we retain,
When death’s rude stroke has closed the monarch’s reign,
When destiny cuts short the smooth descent,
And all the royal pedigree is spent,
The people to their former rights restored,
May change the laws or choose their future lord.
The states in council represent the whole,
Elect the king, and limit his control;
Thus our renowned forefathers did ordain
That Capet should succeed to Charlemagne.
The League with vain presumption arrogates
This right, and hastens to convene the states.
They thought the murder of the king bestowed
That power perhaps, on those who shed his blood,
Thought that the semblance of a throne would shroud
Their dark designs, and captivate the crowd,
Would help their jarring counsels to unite,
And give their foul pretence an air of right;
That from what source soe’er his claim may spring,
Just or unjust, a king is still a king,
And worthy or unworthy of the sway,
A Frenchman must have something to obey.
Swift to the Louvre with imperious air
And fierce demeanor the proud chiefs repair;
Thither whom Spain ambassador had sent,
And Rome, with many a priestly bigot went,
To speed the election with tumultuous haste,
An insult on the kings of ages past,
And in the splendor of their trains, expense
Was seen, the child of public indigence.
No princely potentate or high-born peer
Sprung from our old nobility, was there,
Their grandeur now a shadowy form alone,
Though lawgivers by birth and kinsmen of the throne.
No sage assertors of the public claim,
Strenuous and hardy, from the commons came,
No lilies as of old the court arrayed,
But foreign pomp and pageant in their stead.
There sumptuous o’er the throne for Mayenne prepared,
A canopy of royal state was reared,
And on the front with rich embroidery graced,
Oh, dire indignity! these lines were traced.
“Kings of the earth, and judges of mankind,
Who deaf to mercy, by no laws confined,
Lay nature waste beneath your fierce domain,
Let Valois’ fate instruct you how to reign.”
Forthwith contentious rage with jarring sound,
And clamorous strife discordant echo round.
Slave to the smiles of Rome, obsequious here
A venal flatterer soothes the legate’s ear;
“‘Tis time,” he cries, “the lily should bow down
Her head, obedient to the triple crown,
Time that the Church should lift her chastening hand,
And from her high tribunal scourge the land.”
Cruel tribunal! scene of monkish power,
Which even the realms that suffer it, abhor;
Whose fiery priests by bigotry prepared,
Torture and death without remorse award,
Disgraceful to the sacred cause they guard;
As if mankind were, as of old, possessed
With pagan blindness, when the lying priest
To appease the wrath of heaven with vengeance fired,
The sacrifice of human blood required.
Some for Iberian gold betray the State,
And sell it to the Spaniard whom they hate.
But mightier than the rest, their power was shown,
Who destined Mayenne already to the throne.
The splendor of a crown was wanting yet,
To make the fulness of his fame complete;
To that bright goal his daring wish he sends,
Nor heeds the danger that on kings attends.
Then Potier rose; plain, nervous and untaught
His eloquence, the language of his thought.
No blemish of the times had touched the sage,
Revered for virtue in a vicious age;
Oft had he checked, with courage uncontrolled,
The tide of faction headlong as it rolled,
Asserted hardily the laws he loved,
Nor ever feared reproof, or was reproved.
He raised his voice; struck silent at the sound
The crowd was hushed, and listening gathered round.
So when at sea the winds have ceased to roar,
And the loud sailor’s cries are heard no more,
No sound survives, but of the dashing prow
That cleaves with prosperous course the obedient wave below.
Such Potier seemed; no rude disturbance broke
The attentive calm, while freely thus he spoke:
“Mayenne, I perceive then, has the general voice;
And though I praise not, can excuse your choice;
His virtues I esteem not less than you,
And were I free to choose, might choose him, too.
But if the laws ambitious he pervert,
His claim of empire cancels his desert.”
Thus far the sage; when lo! that instant Mayenne
Himself appeared, with all a monarch’s train.
“Prince!” he pursued, and spoke it boldly forth,
“I dare oppose you, for I know your worth;
Dare step between your merit and the throne,
Warm in the cause of France, and in our own.
Vain your election were, your right unsound,
While yet in France a Bourbon may be found;
Heaven in its wisdom placed you near the throne,
That you might guard but not usurp the crown;
His ashes sprinkled with a monarch’s gore
The shade of injured Guise can ask no more;
Point not your vengeance then at Henry’s head,
Nor charge him with the blood he never shed.
Heaven’s influence on you both too largely flows,
And ‘tis your rival virtue makes you foes.
But hark! the clamor of the common herd
Ascends the skies, and heretic’s the word;
And see the priesthood ranged in dark array,
To deeds of blood insatiate urge their way!
Barbarians, hold — what custom yet unknown,
What law, or rather frenzy of your own,
Can cancel your allegiance to the throne?
Comes he, this Henry, savage and unjust,
To o’erthrow your shrines, and mix them with the dust?
He, to those shrines in search of truth he flies,
And loves the sacred laws yourselves despise;
Virtue alone, whatever form she wears,
Whatever sect she graces he reveres;
Nor like yourselves, weak, arrogant and blind,
Dares do the work of God, and judge mankind;
More righteous and more Christian far than you,
He comes to rule, but to forgive you, too.
And shall you judge your master, and shall he,
The friend of freedom, not himself be free?
Not such, alas! nor sullied with your crimes,
Were the true Christian race of elder times;
They, though all heathen errors they abhorred,
Served without murmuring their heathen lord,
The doom of death without a groan obeyed,
And blessed the cruel hand by which they bled:
Such are the Christians whom true faith assures,
They died to serve their kings, you murder yours,
And God, whom you describe forever prone
To wrath, if He delights to shower it down
On guilty heads, shall aim it at your own.”
He closed his bold harangue, confusion scared
Their conscious souls, none answered him, or dared;
In vain they would have shaken from their hearts,
The dread which truth to guiltiness imparts,
With fear and rage their troubled thoughts were tossed,
When suddenly a shout from all their host
Was heard: “To arms! to arms! or we are lost.”
Dark clouds of dust in floating volumes rise
Wide o’er the champaign, and obscure the skies;
The clarion and the drum with horrid sound,
Dread harbingers of slaughter echo round.
So from his gloomy chambers in the North,
When the fierce spirit of the storm breaks forth,
His dusky pinions shroud the noon-day light,
And thunder and sharp winds attend his dreary flight.
‘Twas Henry’s host came shouting from afar,
Disdaining ease, and eager for the war;
O’er the wide plain they stretched their bright array,
And to the ramparts urged their furious way.
These hours the chief vouchsafed not to consume
In empty rites performed at Valois’ tomb,
Unprofitable tribute! fondly paid
By the proud living to the unconscious dead;
No lofty dome, nor monumental pile,
On the waste shore he raised with fruitless toil,
Vain arts! to rescue the departed great,
From the rough tooth of time and rage of fate;
A nobler meed on Valois’ shade below,
And worthier gifts he hastened to bestow,
To avenge his murder, make rebellion cease,
And rule the subjugated land in peace.
The din of battle gathering at their gates,
Dissolved their council, and dispersed the states.
Swift from the walls to view the advancing host
The general flew, the soldier to his post,
With shouts the approaching hero they incense,
And all is ripe for onset and defence.
Though pleasure now, and peace securely reign
In all her courts, not such was Paris then,
But girt with massy walls, and unexposed,
An hundred forts the narrower town inclosed;
The suburbs now defenceless and unbarred,
The gentle hand of peace their only guard,
Adorned with all the pomp that wealth supplies,
Proud spires and palaces that pierce the skies,
Were then a cluster of rude huts alone,
A rampart all around of earth was thrown,
With a deep foss to part them from the town.
From the east the mighty chief his march began,
And death with hasty strides came foremost in his van.
Winged with red flames impetuous from on high
And from below, the showery bullets fly,
The rattling storm resistless thickens round,
And tumbles tower and bastion to the ground;
Gored and defaced the gay battalions bleed,
And on the plain their shattered limbs are spread.
In earlier times, unaided and untaught,
His fate by simpler means the soldier wrought;
Strength against strength opposed the contest tried,
And on their swords alone the combatants relied;
More cruel wars their children learned to wage,
Nor less than lightning satisfied their rage.
Then first was heard the thunder-bearing bomb,
Imprisoned mischief struggling in its womb,
Swift on the destined mark the ponderous shell
Came down, and spread destruction where it fell.
Next, dire improvement on the barbarous trade,
In hollow vaults the secret mine was laid;
In vain the warrior trusting in his might,
Speeds his bold march, and seeks the promised fight,
A sudden blast divides the yawning earth,
And the black vapor kindles into birth,
Smote by strange thunder sinks the astonished host,
Deep in the dark abyss forever lost.
These dangers Bourbon unappalled defies,
Impatient for the strife, a throne the prize.
Where’er his hardy bands the hero leads,
‘Tis hell beneath, and tempest o’er their heads,
His glorious steps, undaunted they pursue,
Fired by his deeds still brightening in their view.
Grave in the midst the valiant Mornay went,
Though slow his march, intrepid his intent;
Rage he alike disdained and slavish dread,
Nor heard the thunders bursting round his head;
War was heaven’s scourge on man, he wisely thought,
Nor loved the task, but took it as his lot;
Even for the wonders of his sword he grieved,
And loathed it for the glories it achieved.
Now poured their legions down the dreadful way,
Where smeared with blood the sloping glacis lay;
More fierce as more in danger, with the slain
They choke the foss, and lift it to the plain,
Then borne upon the supple numbers, reach
The ramparts, and rush headlong to the breach.
Waving his bloody falchion, Henry led
The way, and entered furious at their head.
Already fixed by his victorious hand
High on the walls his glittering banners stand:
Awe-struck the Leaguers seemed, as they implored
The conqueror’s mercy, and confessed their lord;
But Mayenne recalls them to their guilty part,
And drives the dawning grace from every heart,
Till crowded in close phalanx, they beset
Their king, whose eye their hardiest feared to meet.
Fierce on the battlements, and bathed in blood
Of thousands slain, the fury Discord stood;
There best her horrid mandates they obey,
And joined in closer fight more surely slay.
Sudden the deep-mouthed engines cease to roar,
And the loud thunder of the war is o’er:
At once a universal silence round,
With awful pause, succeeds the deafening sound;
Now through his foes the soldier cleaves his way,
And on the sword alone depends the day;
Alternate the contending leaders boast
The bloody ramparts won, and yield them lost:
Still victory the doubtful balance swayed,
And joined in air the mingling banners played,
Till oft triumphant, and as oft subdued,
Fled the pale League, and Henry swift pursued.
‘Tis thus the restless billows wash the shore,
By turns o’erwhelm it, and by turns restore.
Then most in that tremendous hour was shown,
The might of Bourbon’s rival, and his own;
‘Twas then each hero’s warlike soul was proved,
That in the shock of charging hosts unmoved,
Amidst confusion, horror and despair,
Ranged the dread scene and ruled the doubtful war.
Meanwhile renowned for many a martial deed,
A gallant English band brave Essex led,
In Gallia’s cause with wonder they advance,
And scarcely can believe they fight for France.
On the same ramparts where the conquered Seine,
Saw in old time their great forefathers reign,
For England’s sake they wage the mortal strife,
Proud to enhance her fame, and prodigal of life.
Impetuous Essex first the breach ascends,
Where fierce d’Aumale the crowded pass defends,
To fight like fabled demi-gods they came,
Their age, their ardor, and their force the same;
French, English, Lorrainese in combat close,
And in one stream the mingled slaughter flows.
Oh thou! the genius of that fatal day,
Soul of the strife, destroying angel, say,
Whose was the triumph then; which hero’s host
Yourself assisted, and heaven favored most?
Long time the chiefs with rival glory crowned,
Dealt equal slaughter through the legions round;
At length, by factious rage in vain assailed,
The righteous cause and Henry’s arms prevailed;
Worn with disastrous toil and long fatigue,
Exhausted, hopeless, fled the vanquished League.
As on Pyrenees’ ever-clouded brow,
When swelling torrents threat the vale below,
A while with solid banks and lofty mounds,
They stay the foaming deluge in its bounds;
But soon, the barrier broke, the rushing tide
Roars unresisted down the mountain’s side,
Uproots the forest oaks, and bears away,
Flocks, folds and herds, an undistinguished prey:
So from the smoking walls with matchless force,
Victorious Bourbon urged his rapid course,
Such havoc where the royal warrior passed,
Deformed the ranks and laid the battle waste.
At length the friendly gates, by Mayenne’s command
Flung wide, received the desolated band,
The victor hosts around the suburbs fly
Incensed, and hurl the blazing torch on high,
Their temperate valor kindles into rage,
And spoil and plunder are the war they wage.
Henry perceived it not; with eager flight
He chased the foe, dispersed before his sight;
Spurred by his courage, with success elate
And ardent joy, he reached the hostile gate,
Thence on his scattered force aloud he calls,
“Haste, fly my friends, and scale the haughty walls.”
When suddenly in rolling clouds enshrined,
A beauteous form came floating on the wind,
With gracious mien and awful to the view,
Towards Henry the descending vision flew,
His brow was with immortal splendor graced,
And horror mixed with love his radiant eyes expressed.
“Hold, hapless conqueror of your native land!”
The phantom cried, “and stay your vengeful hand;
This fair dominion you with war deface,
Is yours of old, the birthright of your race;
These lives you seek, are vassals of your throne,
This wealth you give to plunder, is your own;
Spare your own heritage, nor seek to reign
A solitary monarch o’er the slain.”
Amazed the soldier heard the solemn sound,
And dropped his spoils, and prostrate kissed the ground.
Then Henry, rage still boiling in his breast,
Like seas hoarse murmuring while they sink to rest,
“Say bright inhabitant of heaven, what means
Your hallowed form amidst these horrid scenes?”
Mild as the breeze, at summer’s evening tide
Serene, the visionary shape replied:
“Behold the sainted king whom France adores,
Protector of the Bourbon race, and yours,
That Louis, who like you once urged the fight,
Whose shrines you heed not, and whose faith you slight;
Know when the destined days their course have run,
Heaven shall itself conduct you to the throne;
Thine is the victory, but that great reward,
Is for thy mercy, not thy might, prepared.”
He spoke, the listening chief with rapture hears,
And down his cheek fast flow the joyful tears;
Peace soothed his tranquil heart, he dropped his sword,
And on his knees devout the shade adored.
Then twice around his neck his arms he flung,
And thrice deceived on vain embraces hung;
Light as an empty dream at break of day,
Or as a blast of wind, he rushed away.
Meanwhile in haste to guard the invested town,
The swarming multitude the ramparts crown,
Thick from above a fiery flood they pour,
And at the monarch aim the fatal shower,
But heaven’s bright influence, round his temples shed,
Diverts the storm, and guards his sacred head.
‘Twas then he saw, protected as he stood,
What thanks to his paternal saint he owed;
Towards Paris his sad eye in sorrow thrown,
“Ye French!” he cried, “and thou ill-fated town,
Ye citizens, a blind deluded horde,
How long will you withstand your lawful lord!”
Nor more; but as the star that brings the day,
At eve declining in his western way,
More mildly shoots his horizontal fires,
And seems an ampler globe as he retires,
Such from the walls the parting hero turned,
While all his kindred saint within his bosom burned.
Vincennes he sought, where Louis whilom spoke
His righteous laws beneath an aged oak.
Vincennes, alas! no more a calm retreat,
How art thou changed, thou once delightful seat!
Thy rural charms, thy peaceful smiles are fled,
And blank despair possesses thee instead.
‘Tis there the great, their hapless labors done,
And all the short-lived race of glory run,
The fickle changes of their various lot
Conclude, and die neglected and forgot.
Now night o’er heaven pursued her dusky way,
And hid in shades the horrors of the day.