Addressed To D. Florence M'Carthy, M.R.I.A.[3]

Stand on the heights, O Poet! nor come down Amid the wise old serpents, coiled around The Tree of Knowledge in Academies. The Poet's place is by the Tree of Life, Whose fruit turns men to Gods, and makes them live, Not seeking buried treasure in the tombs. Leave the dim records of a by-gone age To those great Archivists, who flash the torch Of Truth along Time's mouldering records, Illuminating all the fading Past, Like golden letters on an ancient scroll. The Poet soars with eagles, breathes pure ether, Basks in the light that suns the mountain peak, And sings, from spirit altitudes, such strains, That all the toilers in life's rugged furrows Are forced, for once, to lift the bow'd-down head, And look on Heaven. Flashes from Poet's words Electric light, strong, swift, and sudden, like The clash of thunder-clouds, by which men read God's writing legibly on human hearts.

O Poet-Prophets! God hath sent ye forth With lips made consecrate by altar fire, To guide the Future, not to tread the Past; To chaunt, in glorious music, man's great hymn, The watchword of humanity--Advance! Advance in Wisdom, Nobleness, and Truth, High aims, high purposes, and self-control, Which is self-reverence, knowing we shall stand With crownéd angels before God's great throne The Poet nerves the arm to do great deeds, Inspires great thoughts, flings o'er the tears of life The rainbow arch, to save us from despair; Quickens the stagnant energies to act, Bears the advancing banner of the age, Full in the van of all Humanity; And, with a strength, God-given, rolls the stone, As angels may, from off the Sepulchre Where souls lie bound, bidding them rise and live.

O Poet! preach this Gospel once again-- True Life, true Liberty, God's gifts to man; Freedom from servile aims and selfish ends, That swathe and bind the kingly spirit down, Like Egypt's grave-clothes on the royal dead; Scatter the golden grain of lofty thoughts From which spring hero-deeds--that so, in truth, Our Future may be nobler than our Past, In all that makes a nation's life divine-- This is the Poet's mission, therefore--+THINE+.

FRANCE IN '93.

I.

Hark! the onward heavy tread-- Hark! the voices rude-- 'Tis the famished cry for Bread From a wildered multitude. They come! They come! Point the cannon--roll the drum; Thousands wail and weep with hunger-- Faster let your soldiers number. Sword, and gun, and bayonet A famished people's cries have met.

II.

Hark! the onward heavy tread-- Hark! the voices rude-- 'Tis the famished cry for Bread From an armed multitude. They come! They come! Not with meek submission's hum. Bloody trophy they have won, Ghastly glares it in the sun-- Gory head on lifted pike. Ha! they weep not now, but strike.

III.

Ye, the deaf ones to their cries-- Ye, who scorned their agonies-- 'Tis no longer prayers for bread Shriek in your ears the famishéd; But wildly, fiercely, peal on peal, Resoundeth--Down with the Bastile! Can ye tame a people now? Try them--flatter, promise, vow, Swear their wrongs shall be redressed-- But patience--time will do the rest; Swear they shall one day be fed-- Hark! the People--Dead for Dead!

IV.

Calculating statesmen, quail; Proud aristocrat, grow pale; Savage sounds that deathly song: Down with tyrants! Down with wrong! Blindly now they wreak revenge-- How rudely do a mob avenge!

What! coronetted Prince or Peer, Will not the base-born slavelings fear Sooth, their cry is somewhat stern: Aristocrats, à la Lanterne! Ghastly fruit their lances bear-- Noble heads with streaming hair; Diadem and kingly crown Strike the famine-stricken down. Now, the People's work is done-- On they stride o'er prostrate throne; Royal blood of King and Queen Streameth from the guillotine; Wildly on the people goeth, Reaping what the noble soweth. Little dreamed he, prince or peer, Of who should be his heritor. Hunger now, at last, is sated In halls where once it wailed and waited; Wild Justice fiercely rives the laws Which failed to right a people's cause. On that human ocean floweth, Whither stops it no one knoweth-- Surge the wild waves in their strength Against all chartered rights at length-- Throne, and King, and Noble fall; But the People--they hold Carnival!

THE FALL OF THE TYRANTS.