Forging the prodigal gold of either Ind
To armed thunderbolts. The Arts lay dead;
Trade rotted in your marts; your Armies
mutinous,
Your Treasury bankrupt. Would you now revoke
Your trust, so be it! and I leave you, sole,
Supremest Monarch of the mightiest realm,
From Ganges to the Icebergs. Look without,—
No foe not humbled! Look within,-the Arts
Quit, for our schools, their old Hesperides,
The golden Italy! while throughout the veins
Of your vast empire flows in strengthening tides
Trade, the calm health of Nations! Sire, I know
That men have called me cruel;-
I am not; I am just! I found France rent asunder,
The rich men despots, and the poor banditti,
Sloth in the mart, and schism within the temple
Brawls festering to rebellion; and weak laws
Rotting away with rust in antique sheaths.
I have re-created France; and, from the ashes
Of the old feudal and decrepit carcass,
Civilization, on her luminous wings,
Soars, phoenix-like, to Jove! What was my art?
Genius, some say;-some, Fortune;-Witchcraft,
Not so;-my art was JUSTICE!
CROMWELL ON THE DEATH OF CHARLES THE FIRST.
By what law fell King Charles? By all the laws
He left us! And I, Cromwell, here proclaim it. Sirs, let us, with a calm and sober eye,
Look on the spectre of this ghastly deed.
Who spills man's blood, his shall by man be shed! "Tis Heaven's first law; to that law we had come, None other left us. Who, then, caused the strife That crimsoned Naseby's field, and Marston's moor?
It was the Stuart;-so the Stuart fell!
A victim, in the pit himself had digged!
He died not, Sirs, as hated Kings have died,
In secret and in shade,-no eye to trace
The one step from their prison to their pall;
He died i' the eyes of Europe,—in the face
Of the broad Heaven; amidst the sons of
England,
Whom he had outraged; by a solemn sentence,
Passed by a solemn Court. Does this seem guilt?
You pity Charles! 'tis well; but pity more
The tens of thousand honest humble men,
Who, by the tyranny of Charles compelled
To draw the sword, fell butchered in the field! Good Lord! when one man dies who wears a
How the earth trembles,-how the Nations gape, Amazed and awed!-but when that one man's victims,
Poor worms, unclothed in purple, daily die,
In the grim cell, or on the groaning gibbet,
Or on the civil field, ye pitying souls
Drop not one tear from your indifferent eyes!
He would have stretched his will
O'er the unlimited empire of men's souls,
Fettered the Earth's pure air,-for freedom is
That air, to honest lips,—and here he lies,
In dust most eloquent, to after time
A never-silent oracle for Kings!
Was this the hand that strained within its grasp
So haught a sceptre?-this the shape that wore
Majesty like a garment? Spurn that clay,—
It can resent not; speak of royal crimes,
And it can frown not;-schemeless lies the brain Whose thoughts were sources of such fearful deeds.
What things are we, O Lord, when, at thy will,
A worm like this could shake the mighty world!
A few years since, and in the port was moored
A bark to far Columbia's forests bound;
And I was one of those indignant hearts
Panting for exile in the thirst for freedom.
Then that pale clay (poor clay, that was a King!)
Forbade my parting, in the wanton pride
Of vain command, and with a fated sceptre
Waved back the shadow of the death to come.
Here stands that baffled and forbidden wanderer,
Loftiest amid the wrecks of ruined empire,
Beside the coffin of a headless King!
He thralled my fate,-I have prepared his doom;
He made me captive,-lo! his narrow cell!
So hands unseen do fashion forth the earth
Of our frail schemes into our funeral urns;
So, walking dream-led in Life's sleep, our steps
Move blindfold to the scaffold or the Throne!
JOHANN FREDERICK VON SCHILLER.
Before his lion-garden gate,
The wild-beast combat to await,
King Francis sate:
Around him were his nobles placed,
The balcony above was graced
By ladies of the court, in gorgeous state:
And as with his finger a sign he made,
The iron grating was open laid,
And with stately step and mien
A lion to enter was seen.
With fearful look
'His mane he shook,
And yawning wide,
Stared around him on every side;
And stretched his giant limbs of strength,
And laid himself down at his fearful length.
And the king a second signal made,-
And instant was opened wide
A second gate, on the other side,
From which, with fiery bound,
A tiger sprung.
Wildly the wild one yelled,
When the lion he beheld;
And, bristling at the look,
With his tail his sides he strook,
And rolled his rabid tongue.
And, with glittering eye,
Crept round the lion slow and shy
Then, horribly howling,
And grimly growling,
Down by his side himself he laid.
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