Thus, Gentle Monarchs, pass unnoted on!
Mild Pastors of Mankind, away!
Sages, depart, as common brows have gone,
Devoid of the immortal ray!
For vainly you make light the people's chain;
And vainly, like a calm flock, come
On your own footsteps, without sweat or pain,
The people,--treading towards their tomb.
Soon as your star doth to its setting glide,
And its last lustre shall be given
By your quenched name,--upon the popular tide
Scarce a faint furrow shall be riven.
Pass, pass ye on! For you no statue high!
Your names shall vanish from the horde:
Their memory is for those who lead to die
Beneath the cannon and the sword;
Their love, for him who on the humid field
By thousands lays to rot their bones;
For him, who bids them pyramids to build,--
And bear upon their backs the stones!
From the French of AUGUSTE BARBIER.
* * * * *
ON THE WARRES IN IRELAND.
FROM "EPIGRAMS," BOOK IV. EPIGRAM 6.
I praised the speech, but cannot now abide it,
That warre is sweet to those that have not try'd it;
For I have proved it now and plainly see't,
It is so sweet, it maketh all things sweet.
At home Canaric wines and Greek grow lothsome;
Here milk is nectar, water tasteth toothsome.
There without baked, rost, boyl'd, it is no cheere;
Bisket we like, and Bonny Clabo here.
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