Part 21 (1/2)
Deaf is the ear of all that jewelled crowd To sorrow's sob, although its call be loud.
Better than waste long nights in idle show, To help the indigent and raise the low-- To train the wicked to forsake his way, And find th' industrious work from day to day!
Better to charity those hours afford, Which now are wasted at the festal board!
And ye, O high-born beauties! in whose soul Virtue resides, and Vice has no control; Ye whom prosperity forbids to sin, So fair without--so chaste, so pure within-- Whose honor Want ne'er threatened to betray, Whose eyes are joyous, and whose heart is gay; Around whose modesty a hundred arms, Aided by pride, protect a thousand charms; For you this ball is pregnant with delight; As glitt'ring planets cheer the gloomy night:-- But, O, ye wist not, while your souls are glad, How millions wander, homeless, sick and sad!
Hazard has placed you in a happy sphere, And like your own to you all lots appear; For blinded by the sun of bliss your eyes Can see no dark horizon to the skies.
Such is the chance of life! Each gallant thane, Prince, peer, and n.o.ble, follow in your train;-- They praise your loveliness, and in your ear They whisper pleasing things, but insincere; Thus, as the moths enamoured of the light, Ye seek these realms of revelry each night.
But as ye travel thither, did ye know What wretches walk the streets through which you go.
Sisters, whose gewgaws glitter in the glare Of your great l.u.s.tre, all expectant there, Watching the pa.s.sing crowd with avid eye, Till one their love, or l.u.s.t, or shame may buy; Or, with commingling jealousy and rage, They mark the progress of your equipage; And their deceitful life essays the while To mask their woe beneath a sickly smile!
G.W.M. REYNOLDS.
PRAYER FOR FRANCE.
_(”O Dieu, si vous avez la France.”)_
[VII., August, 1832.]
O G.o.d! if France be still thy guardian care, Oh! spare these mercenary combats, spare!
The thrones that now are reared but to be broke; The rights we render, and anon revoke; The muddy stream of laws, ideas, needs, Flooding our social life as it proceeds; Opposing tribunes, even when seeming one-- Soft, yielding plaster put in place of stone; Wave chasing wave in endless ebb and flow; War, darker still and deeper in its woe; One party fall'n, successor scarce preludes, Than, straight, new views their furious feuds; The great man's pressure on the poor for gold, Rumors uncertain, conflicts, crimes untold; Dark systems hatched in secret and in fear, Telling of hate and strife to every ear, That even to midnight sleep no peace is given, For murd'rous cannon through our streets are driven.
J.S. MACRAE.
TO CANARIS, THE GREEK PATRIOT.
_(”Canaris! nous t'avons...o...b..ie.”)_
[VIII., October, 1832.]
O Canaris! O Canaris! the poet's song Has blameful left untold thy deeds too long!
But when the tragic actor's part is done, When clamor ceases, and the fights are won, When heroes realize what Fate decreed, When chieftains mark no more which thousands bleed; When they have shone, as clouded or as bright, As fitful meteor in the heaven at night, And when the sycophant no more proclaims To gaping crowds the glory of their names,-- 'Tis then the mem'ries of warriors die, And fall--alas!--into obscurity, Until the poet, in whose verse alone Exists a world--can make their actions known, And in eternal epic measures, show They are not yet forgotten here below.
And yet by us neglected! glory gloomed, Thy name seems sealed apart, entombed, Although our shouts to pigmies rise--no cries To mark thy presence echo to the skies; Farewell to Grecian heroes--silent is the lute, And sets your sun without one Memnon bruit?
There was a time men gave no peace To cheers for Athens, Bozzaris, Leonidas, and Greece!
And Canaris' more-wors.h.i.+pped name was found On ev'ry lip, in ev'ry heart around.
But now is changed the scene! On hist'ry's page Are writ o'er thine deeds of another age, And thine are not remembered.--Greece, farewell!
The world no more thine heroes' deeds will tell.
Not that this matters to a man like thee!