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It could not last–these horrors could not last–
France would herself have risen in might to cast
The insulters off–and oh! that then as now,
Chained to some distant islet’s rocky brow,
NAPOLEON ne’er had come to force, to blight,
Ere half matured, a cause so proudly bright;–
To palsy patriot arts with doubt and shame,
And write on Freedom’s flag a despot’s name;–
To rush into the list, unaskt, alone,
And make the stake of all the game of one!
Then would the world have seen again what power
A people can put forth in Freedom’s hour;
Then would the fire of France once more have blazed;–
For every single sword, reluctant raised
In the stale cause of an oppressive throne,
Millions would then have leaped forth in her own;
And never, never had the unholy stain
Of Bourbon feet disgraced her shores again.

But fate decreed not so–the Imperial Bird,
That, in his neighboring cage, unfeared, unstirred,
Had seemed to sleep with head beneath his wing,
Yet watched the moment for a daring spring;–
Well might he watch, when deeds were done, that made
His own transgressions whiten in their shade;
Well might he hope a world thus trampled o’er
By clumsy tyrants would be his once more:–
Forth from his cage the eagle burst; to light,
From steeple on to steeple[1] winged his flight,
With calm and easy grandeur, to that throne
From which a Royal craven just had flown;
And resting there, as in his eyry, furled
Those wings, whose very rustling shook the world!

What was your fury then, ye crowned array,
Whose feast of spoil, whose plundering holiday
Was thus broke up, in all its greedy mirth,
By one bold chieftain’s stamp on Gallic earth!
Fierce was the cry, and fulminant the ban,–
“Assassinate, who will–enchain, who can,
“The vile, the faithless, outlawed, lowborn man!”
“Faithless!”–and this from you–from you, forsooth,
Ye pious Kings, pure paragons of truth,
Whose honesty all knew, for all had tried;
Whose true Swiss zeal had served on every side;
Whose fame for breaking faith so long was known,
Well might ye claim the craft as all your own,
And lash your lordly tails and fume to see
Such low-born apes of Royal perfidy!
Yes–yes–to you alone did it belong
To sin for ever, and yet ne’er do wrong,–
The frauds, the lies of Lords legitimate
Are but fine policy, deep strokes of state;
But let some upstart dare to soar so high
In Kingly craft, and “outlaw” is the cry!
What, tho’ long years of mutual treachery
Had peopled full your diplomatic shelves
With ghosts of treaties, murdered ‘mong yourselves;
Tho’ each by turns was knave and dupe–what then?
A holy League would set all straight again;
Like JUNO’S virtue, which a dip or two
In some blest fountain made as good as new!
Most faithful Russia–faithful to whoe’er
Could plunder best and give him amplest share;
Who, even when vanquisht, sure to gain his ends,
For want of foes to rob, made free with friends,[2]
And, deepening still by amiable gradations,
When foes were stript of all, then fleeced relations![3]
Most mild and saintly Prussia–steeped to the ears
In persecuted Poland’s blood and tears,
And now, with all her harpy wings outspread
O’er severed Saxony’s devoted head!
Pure Austria too–whose history naught repeats
But broken leagues and subsidized defeats;
Whose faith, as Prince, extinguisht Venice shows,
Whose faith, as man, a widowed daughter knows!
And thou, oh England–who, tho’ once as shy
As cloistered maids, of shame or perfidy,
Art now broke in, and, thanks to CASTLEREAGH,
In all that’s worst and falsest lead’st the way!