All then was bright with promise;--Kings began
To own a sympathy with suffering Man,
And man was grateful; Patriots of the South
Caught wisdom from a Cossack Emperor's mouth,
And heard, like accents thawed in Northern air,
Unwonted words of freedom burst forth there!
Who did not hope, in that triumphant time,
When monarchs, after years of spoil and crime,
Met round the shrine of Peace, and Heaven lookt on;--
_Who_ did not hope the lust of spoil was gone;
That that rapacious spirit, which had played
The game of Pilnitz o'er so oft, was laid;
And Europe's Rulers, conscious of the past,
Would blush and deviate into right at last?
But no--the hearts, that nurst a hope so fair,
Had yet to learn what men on thrones can dare;
Had yet to know, of all earth's ravening things,
The only _quite_ untameable are Kings!
Scarce had they met when, to its nature true,
The instinct of their race broke out anew;
Promises, treaties, charters, all were vain,
And "Rapine! rapine!" was the cry again.
How quick they carved their victims, and how well,
Let Saxony, let injured Genoa tell;-
Let all the human stock that, day by day,
Was, at that Royal slave-mart, truckt away,--
The million souls that, in the face of heaven,
Were split to fractions, bartered, sold or given
To swell some despot Power, too huge before,
And weigh down Europe with one Mammoth more.
Pages:
1347
1348
1349
1350
1351
1352
1353
1354
1355
1356
1357
1358
1359
1360
1361
1362
1363
1364
1365
1366
1367
1368
1369
1370
1371