THE ARGUMENT.
The king returns to the army. Renews the siege. The duel between Turenne and d’Aumale. A famine in the city. The king relieves the inhabitants. Heaven at length recompenses his virtues. Truth descends to enlighten him. Paris opens her gates and the war is finished.
Those fatal moments lost in soft repose
Had waked the courage of the vanquished foes.
Rebellion breathed again, and faction’s schemes
Flushed the deluded throng with golden dreams.
Yet vain their hopes, for full with generous fame
And active zeal the martial Bourbon came,
Eager to reap the harvest he had sown
And make the field of conquest all his own.
Again his banners waved aloft in air,
And Paris saw them with renewed despair.
Again the chief before her walls appears
Scarce yet recovered from a siege’s fears;
Those very walls, where yet sulphurous smoke
With desolation marks the cannon’s stroke,
Which now with ruins had bestrewed the land
Had not compassion checked the hero’s hand;
When the bright angel, whose obedience still
Guardian of France, performs the Almighty’s will,
Bade his soft breast with tender mercies glow,
Withheld his arm, and stopped the falling blow.
Through the king’s camp no voice was heard around
But songs of mirth, and joy’s tumultuous sound.
While each brave warrior, anxious for the fray,
With eyes impatient marks the destined prey.
Meantime the haughty legions all dismayed,
Pressed round their prudent chief, and sued for aid;
When thus d’Aumale, of brave impetuous soul,
Abhorring counsel, and above control;
“We have not yet so learned our warfare here
To sneak to hiding-holes, and crouch for fear,
Cursed be the man whose counsel thither tends;
The foe comes forward — let us meet them, friends.
Not tamely wait till other vantage calls,
And rust in sloth beneath these coward walls;
On then, and conquer — fortune oft will spare
A smile to crown the efforts of despair.
Frenchmen attacked, already are o’erthrown —
Seek then your safety from yourselves alone.
Ye chiefs, who hear me, haste where glory calls,
Know, soldiers, know your leaders are your walls.”
He spoke — amazed the Leaguers heard each sound,
And turned their eyes in silence to the ground.
He blushed with shame, and in each leader’s face
Read their refusal, and his own disgrace.
“Ye will not follow then, ye heroes tame,
Nor wish I basely to survive the shame;
Well — shrink at dangers still — so shall not I —
Alone I go — to conquer or to die.”
He spoke; and from the city gate in martial pride
Boldly advanced with firm impetuous stride.
Before his steps the shrill-tongued herald went,
To hurl defiance at each warrior’s tent.
E’en to the king’s abode the herald came,
And challenged combat in the hero’s name.
“Ye daring sons of glory,” loud he cried,
“Now be your valor with your fortune tried,
D’Aumale in single combat waits you here,
By me he calls to arms — stand forth, appear.”
The valiant chiefs the desperate challenge heard,
Their zeal rekindling at each haughty word,
Each warrior stern, impatient for the fray,
Hoped the king’s voice, and hailed the glorious day.
Courage in all had formed an equal right.
Turenne alone found favor in his sight.
“Go,” said the prince, “chastise the daring foe,
France to thy hands shall all her glory owe;
Remember, soldier, ‘tis a glorious cause,
Thy own, thy king’s, thy country, and thy laws:
I’ll arm thee for the fight” — the monarch said,
And from his girdle loosed the shining blade.
When thus Turenne— “By this good sword I swear,
By thee, my king, each subject’s darling care,
Thus nobly honored in my prince’s voice,
My ready zeal shall never shame thy choice.”
He spoke; while manly valor flushed his face,
And his heart sprung to meet the king’s embrace;
Then to the field, impetuous as a flood,
Rushed where d’Aumale the daring champion stood.
To Paris’ walls ran all the Leaguer-bands,
While round their king his faithful army stands.
With steadfast eye, which anxious care revealed,
Each side beheld their champion take the field.
While voice and gesture on each part unite
To warm each hero for the dreadful fight.
Meantime a cloud the vaulted sky deforms,
Pregnant it seemed with more than common storms,
While from its womb of darkness, strange to tell,
Burst forth in flames the monstrous brood of hell.
There was hot Zeal, which frantic leaps all bounds,
And Discord smiling on her thousand wounds,
There artful Policy designing fly,
With heart of falsehood and with scowling eye;
There the mad demon too of battles stood,
All Leaguer-gods and drunk with human blood.
Hither they haste, and land on Paris’ walls,
D’Aumale, their League, the cause, their interest calls.
When lo! an angel from the azure sky,
The faithful servant of the God on high,
Descended — round his head in splendor play
Beams that eclipse the lustre of the day.
On wings of fire he shaped his cheerful flight,
And marked his passage with a train of light.
A fruitful olive-branch one hand sustained,
Presage of happy days and peace regained.
His other hand upheld a flaming sword,
And shook the terrors of the eternal Lord;
That sword with which the avenging angel armed
Smote the first-born — confounded and disarmed
Aghast at once shrank all the fiends of hell,
While to the ground their pointless weapons fell.
And resolution sickened all o’erthrown
By some resistless force from hands unknown.
So Dagon worshipped on Philistia’s shore,
Whose purple altars ran with human gore;
Before the ark with tottering ruin nods,
And the fallen idol owns the God of Gods.
Paris, the king, the army, heaven, and hell
Witnessed the combat — at the trumpets’ swell
On to the field the ready warriors came,
Conscious of valor, and a thirst for fame.
Their hands unused the cumbrous weight to wield,
Disdained to fight beneath the glittering shield,
The specious armor of inglorious knight
Proof ‘gainst all blows, and dazzling to the sight;
They scorned the equipment of such coward dress,
Which lengthening combat, made all danger less.
In courage firm advanced each haughty lord,
Man against man, and sword opposed to sword.
“O God of kings,” the royal champion cried,
“Judge thou my cause, and combat on my side;
Courage I vaunt not of, an idle name,
When heavenly justice bars the warrior’s claim;
Not from myself, I dare the glorious fight,
My God shall arm me who approves my right.”
To whom d’Aumale, “In deeds of valor known
Be my reliance on this arm alone.
Our fate depends on us, the mind afraid
Prays to his God in vain for needful aid.
Calm in the heavens He views our equal fight,
And smiling conquest proves the hero’s right.
“The god of wars is valor” — stern he cried,
And with a look of fell contemptuous pride
Gazed on his rival, whose firm modest mind
Spoke in his face, courageous and resigned.
Now sounds the trumpet, to the dubious fray
Rush the brave chiefs impatient of delay.
Whate’er of skill, whate’er of strength is known,
By turns each daring champion proves his own.
While all around the troops with anxious sight,
Half pleased, half frighted, view the desperate fight.
The flashing swords cast forth promiscuous rays,
Blinding the eye-sight with their trembling blaze,
As when the sun athwart the silver streams
Darts his strong light, and breaks in quivering beams.
The thronging crowds around with eyes intent
Look on amazed, and wait the dread event.
With nervous strength and fury uncontrolled,
Full of himself, and as a lion bold
Seems stern d’Aumale; the whiles his rival brave,
Nor proud of strength, nor passion’s headlong slave,
Collected in himself awaits his foe,
Smiles at his rage, and wards each furious blow.
In vain d’Aumale his utmost efforts tries,
His arm no more its wonted strength supplies,
While cool Turenne the combat’s rage renews,
Attacks with vigor, and with skill pursues,
Till proud d’Aumale sinks baffled to the ground,
And his hot blood flows reeking from the wound;
The champion falls; hell echoes with despair,
And dreadful sounds affright the troubled air.
“League, thou art all o’erthrown, the prize is won,
Bourbon, thou hast it now — our reign is done.”
The wretched people with lamenting cries
Attest their grief, and rend the vaulted skies;
D’Aumale all weak, and stretched upon the sand,
His glittering sword fallen useless from his hand,
Fainting, yet strives fresh vigor to regain,
And seems to threaten still, though all in vain.
Fain would he speak, while deep-drawn laboring breath
Denies him utterance in the pangs of death.
Shame’s quickening sense augments his furious air,
And his red eyeballs flash extreme despair.
He heaves, he sinks, he struggles all in vain,
His loosened limbs fall lifeless on the plain;
To Paris’ walls he lifts his closing eye,
Then dies indignant with a desperate sigh.
Mayenne, thou sawest him die, and at each look
Thy trembling nerves with shuddering horrors shook,
Then to thy mind thy own approaching fall
Came full, and thou wast conquered with d’Aumale.
The soldiers now to Paris’ gates repair,
And with slow steps their breathless hero bear.
Entranced with woe, all silent, and amazed
Upon the bleeding corpse the people gazed,
That deep-gashed wound, that front with gore bespread,
That mouth now fallen, and that unpropped head.
Those eyes which e’en in death tremendous stare,
While the fixed sight cast forth a livid glare,
They saw — compassion, shame, disgrace and fear
Choked up each cry, and dried the falling tear.
‘Twas solemn stillness all. When lo, a sound
Which teemed with horror pierced the welkin round.
For now the assailants with tumultuous cries
Demand the attack, and hope the promised prize.
Meantime the king, whom milder thoughts engage,
Calmed their high transports, and repressed their rage.
Stubborn howe’er, and adverse to his will,
Howe’er ungrateful, ‘twas his country still;
Hated by subjects whom he wished to save,
The mercies they denied, his virtue gave;
Pleased if his bounty could their crimes efface,
And force the wretched to accept of grace.
All desperate means he shuddered to employ,
He sought to conquer Paris, not destroy,
Famine perhaps, and lengthened scenes of woe
Might bend to law a proud mistaken foe;
Brought up in plenty, with abundance fed,
To ease and all the train of pleasures bred;
His people pressed by want’s impulsive sting
Might seek for mercy from their patriot king.
Rebellion’s sons, whom vengeance fain would spare,
Mistook for weakness Henry’s pious care.
His valor all forgot, in stubborn pride
They braved their master, and the king defied.
But when no more along the silver Seine
The freighted vessels bear the golden grain,
When desperate famine with her meagre train
With death her consort spreads her baneful reign,
In vain the wretch sends forth his piteous cries,
Looks up in vain for food and gasping dies.
The rich no more preserve their wasting health,
But pine with hunger in the midst of wealth.
No sound of joy the afflicted city knows,
No sound, but such as witnessed direful woes.
No more their heads with festive chaplets crowned,
In songs of joy they send the goblet round.
No wines provoke excess, no savory meats
Quicken the jaded appetite. Through the lone streets,
Emaciate, pale, with dead dull ghastly glare
They wander victims of the fiend Despair.
The weak old man worn out with hunger’s rage
Sees his child perish in its cradled age;
Here drops a family entire, and there
Grovelling in dust, and worn with meagre care,
The haggard wretches in life’s latest stage
Fight for an offal with relentless rage.
Fain would the living prey upon the dead,
While the dry bones are kneaded into bread.
What will not misery do? This cursed repast
Promotes the work of death, and proves their last.
Meantime the priests, those reverend sons of prayer
Who preach up fasting which they never share,
Battened in plenty, deaf to hunger’s cries,
Which from their bounty met no wished supplies:
Yet went they forth with true fanatic zeal
To preach those virtues which they could not feel.
To the poor wretch, death hanging on his eyes,
Their liberal hand would ope the friendly skies;
To some they talked of vengeance sent from God,
And Henry punished with the Almighty’s rod;
Of Paris saved by heaven’s immediate love,
And manna dropping from the clouds above;
O’erawed by power, by artful priests deceived,
The crowd obsequious what they taught believed;
Submissive, half content, resigned their breath,
Nay, happy too, they triumphed in their death.
With foreign troops, to swell affliction’s tide
The famished city swarmed on every side;
Their breasts where pity never learned to glow
Lusted for rapine, and rejoiced in woe.
These came from haughty Belgia’s plains, and those
Helvetia’s monsters, hireling friends or foes.
To mercy deaf, on misery’s sons they press
And snatch the little from extreme distress.
Not for the soldier’s plunder, hidden store,
And heaped up riches, useful now no more;
Not urged by lust, and lured by beauty’s charms,
To force the virgin from her mother’s arms;
Their murderous torments raged for food concealed
Supports laid up, and pittance unrevealed.
A woman — God! must faithful memory tell
A deed which bears the horrid stamp of hell!
Their flinty hearts which never felt remorse
Robbed of her little all with brutal force.
One tender infant left, her late fond care
The frantic mother eyed with wild despair.
Then furious all at once, with murderous blade
Rushed where the dear devoted offspring played;
The smiling babe stretched forth its little arms;
Its helpless age, sweet looks, and guileless charms
Spoke daggers to her, whilst her bosom burns
With maddening rage, remorse, and love by turns.
Fain would she backward turn, and strives to shun
The wretched deed which famine wishes done.
Thrice did she raise the sword, and all dismayed
Thrice did she trembling drop the bloodless blade.
Till furious grown in hollow voice she cries:
“Cursed be the fruitful bed, and nuptial ties,
And thou unhappy offspring of my womb,
Brought into being to receive thy doom,
Didst thou accept this idle boon of life
To die by famine, or the tyrant’s strife?
Shouldst thou escape their unrelenting rage
Will pinching hunger spare thy softer age?
Then wherefore shouldst thou live? to weep in vain
A wretched wanderer o’er thy parent slain.
No, die with me, ere keen reflection knows
With bitter anguish to augment thy woes.
Give me — thou shalt — nor wait the formal grave,
Give back the blood thy helpless mother gave.
I will entomb thee, and the world shall see
A desperate crime unheard of yet in me.”
She stopped, and frantic with extreme despair
Plunged the keen poniard in her darling heir.
Hither by hunger drawn, the ruffians sped
While yet the mother on her infant fed.
Their eyes with eager joy the place survey
Like savage tigers gloating on their prey.
With furious wish they scan the mansion o’er,
Then rush in rage and burst the jarring door.
When, dreadful sight! a form with horror wild,
That seemed a woman, o’er a murdered child
Set all aghast, and in his reeking blood
Bathed her fell hands, and sought a present food.
“Yes,” cried the wretch, “the bloody deed is done,
Look there, inhuman monsters— ‘tis my son.
These hands had never worn this purple hue,
Nor this dear offspring perished but for you.
Now, ruffians, now with happy transport strike,
Feed on the mother and the babe alike.
Why heaves your breast with such unusual awe?
Have I alone offended nature’s law?
Why stare you all on me? such horrid food
Befits ye best, ye lustful sons of blood.”
Furious she spoke, and staring, desperate wild,
Plunged home the sword, and died upon her child.
The dreadful sight all power of speech controls,
And harrows up e’en these barbarian souls.
In dire amaze they cast their eyes around,
And fear an angry God in every sound;
While the whole city, at the scene dismayed,
Called loud for death, the wretches’ last kind aid.
E’en to the king the dreadful rumor ran,
His bowels yearned — he felt himself a man.
At each recital tender passions rose,
And tearful mercy wept a nation’s woes.
“O God,” he cried, “to whom my thoughts are bare,
Who knowest all I can, and all I dare,
To Thee I lift these hands unstained with blood,
Thou knowest I war not ‘gainst my country’s good.
To me impute not nor their crimes nor woes,
Let Mayenne say, from whence the ruin flows.
For all these ills let him advance the plea,
Which tyrants only use, necessity;
To be thy country’s foe, Mayenne, be thine,
To be its father, be that duty mine.
I am their father, and would wish to spare
Rebellious children with a father’s care.
Should my compassion then but madly arm
A desperate rebel to extend his harm?
Or must I lose my regal crown to show
Indulgent mercy on a subject foe?
Yes — let him live, and if such mercy cost
So dear a price as all my kingdoms lost,
Let this memorial dignify my grave,
To rule o’er foes I sought not, but to save.”
He spoke, and bade the storms of vengeance cease,
And hushed the tumults with returning peace.
Paris again her cheerful accents heard,
And willing troops obeyed their Henry’s word.
Now on the walls the throng impetuous swarms,
And all around, pale, trembling, wasted forms,
Stalk like the ghosts, which from the shades of night,
Compelled by magic force, revisit light,
When potent magi with enchantments fell
Invoke the powers below, and startle hell.
What admiration swelled each happy breast
To find a guardian in their foe professed!
By their own chiefs deserted and betrayed,
An adverse army lent a willing aid.
These pikes, which late dealt slaughter all around,
With desperate force no longer reared to wound,
Now kindly raised to second Henry’s care,
On their stained points the cheering nurture bear.
“Are these,” said they, “the monsters of mankind?
Are these the workings of a tyrant mind?
This the proud king, sad outcast of his God,
His passions’ easy slave, and people’s rod?
No, ‘tis the image of that power above,
Who acts with justice, and delights in love;
He triumphs, yet forgives, nor seeks to show
Revenge’s malice on a conquered foe.
Nay more, he comforts, and with royal grace
Extends assistance to a rebel race.
Be Discord banished from this glorious hour,
And our blood flow but to cement his power;
And steady zeal, no longer faction’s slave,
For him employ that life he wished to save.”
Such was the language Paris’ sons expressed,
While soft emotions filled each grateful breast.
But who alas! can strong assurance ground
On sickly friendship, which exhales in sound?
What hopes from such a race so light and vain,
Who only idly rise to fall again?
For now the priests, whose cursed designing arts
Had raised the flames of discord in their hearts,
Flocked round the people— “O ye sons of shame,
Cowards in war, and Christians but in name,
Is’t thus your weakness from your God would fly,
Think on the martyrs and resolve to die;
Think on the paths their holy army trod,
Nor for preserving life, offend your God.
Think of the crown religion’s sure to bring,
Nor wait for pardon from a tyrant king.
Fain would he lead your steady faith astray,
And warp your conscience to his dangerous way.
With zeal defend religion’s holy laws,
Death has no terrors in a Christian cause.”
So spake they vengeful, and with purpose dire
Blackened the king, till fell rebellion’s fire
Flamed out afresh, and full of desperate strife
They scorn to own the debt of forfeit life.
Midst all these clamors Henry’s virtue known
Pierced through the skies to God’s eternal throne.
Louis, from whom the Bourbon race begun,
Saw now the roll of time completely done,
When his son’s error should be purged away,
And pure religion beam her certain ray.
Then from his breast fled all the train of fears,
And faith established dried up all his tears.
Then soothing hope, and fond paternal love,
Proved his sure guides to heavenly paths above.
Before all time, in pure effulgence bright,
The God of gods had placed His throne of light;
Heaven is beneath His feet; power, wisdom, love,
Compose His essence; while the saints above,
Triumphant hosts, partake unfading joys,
Which neither grief disturbs, nor time destroys.
He speaks, the earth is changed, and frail mankind,
The sport of error, and in councils blind,
Events perceived, but causes undescried,
Accuse God’s wisdom in their selfish pride.
Such were the Goths of old, and barbarous Huns,
The numerous Turk, and Afric’s tawny sons.
All nations have their mighty tyrant, all
Rise in their turns, and hasten to their fall.
Yet not forever tyrants sway their land,
Oft falls the sceptre in more favored hands,
And heaven’s vicegerents, in their actions known,
Dispense God’s favors from a royal throne.
Now Louis, fire of Bourbon’s glorious race,
In plaintive words addressed the throne of grace.
“Lord of the world, if from these azure skies
Thou lookest on mortals with considering eyes,
See how rebellion’s hateful treason stains
The generous sons on famed Lutetia’s plains.
If all unmindful of a subject’s awe,
They spurn their king, nor heed the royal law,
‘Tis for Thy faith their ardent bosoms feel,
And disobedience springs from holy zeal.
Behold the king, of tried illustrious worth,
The terror, love, example of the earth,
With so much virtues couldst Thou form his mind,
To leave him pathless, and in errors blind?
Must Thy most perfect work forego all bliss,
And only Henry thank his God amiss?
Let him henceforth mistaken notions shun,
Give France a master and the Church a son.
The ready subjects to their monarch bring
And to his subjects restore the king.
So in Thy praise may all our hearts unite,
And a whole city worship God aright.”
His humble prayers the eternal Maker heard,
And spoke assent; earth trembled at His word:
The Leaguers stood amazed, and Henry’s breast
Glowed with that faith which God Himself impressed.
When from her mansion, near the eternal throne,
Truth dear to mortals, though sometimes unknown,
Descends a veil of clouds, with ample shade
Concealed from mortal ken the lovely maid,
Till by degrees, as at the approach of day,
The shadowy mist melts all dissolved away:
Full to the sight now all the goddess shone,
Clear as heaven’s light, and cheerful as the sun.
Henry, whose bosom from his early youth
Had felt the longing of eternal truth,
With faith avowed, and pure religion glows,
Which baffles man, and reason darkly knows;
With will convinced reveres the holy see,
Which always one, howe’er dispersed and free;
Beneath one chief adores in every place,
In all her happy saints, God’s wondrous grace.
Christ, for our sins who shed His purest blood,
Now for His chosen flock, the living food,
To the king’s self who bows with secret dread,
Shows his true godhead in the hallowed bread;
The monarch, deep impressed with holy awe,
Adores the wonders of the sacred law.
Now sainted Louis, at the Lord’s command,
The peaceful olive waving in his hand,
Came down from heaven; a ready guide to bring
To Paris’ opening walls their convert king.
In God’s own name, by whom all monarchs reign,
He entered Paris; while the Leaguer train
Bow submissive; e’en the meddling priests
Are dumb, and all around with jocund feasts
And cries of joy the vaulted heavens ring,
And hail at once a conquerer, father, king.
Henceforth all nations owned his regal state,
Too soon determined, as begun too late.
The Austrian trembled; and by Rome approved,
In Henry’s virtues was his Rome beloved.
Discord was exiled from Lutetia’s shore,
And Mayenne brave, a rebel now no more,
Himself his province, in subjection brings,
The best of subjects to the best of kings.
END OF THE HENRIADE.