ODE

TO THE KING OF FRANCE. 1823.

WHAT moves thee, Louis, to forego

The quiet of thy peaceful reign?

Why challenge a reluctant foe,

Rushing to war, war unprovoked, again?

Examine well thine own estate,

And check thy hostile march before it be too late.

When first thou wert an exile from thy home,

Unbroken was thy strength, thy health not wasted;

But couldst thou now endure to roam,

When both thy health and strength thou hast ou

lasted?

With peace and plenty to thy throne restored,

Perchance thou deem'st thyself adored:

Thou seest around thee subjects bending low;

But should misfortune now return,

Be sure thou soon shalt know

Thyself their hate, and all thy race their scorn.

Where are thy men-at-arms, they, once who moved

So lively at the warlike trumpet's call ?

And where their chiefs, thy mareschals all, Heroes in many a glorious battle proved ?–

ODE TO THE KING OF FRANCE.

191

In stern repose each warrior lies.

As flowers that all the darksome night

Close themselves up, until the day-star rise, Then ope, and turn, as worshipping his light: So these, in sullen slumber now reclined,

May soon awake, when thou shalt find

Their worship and their service turn'd and gone, Toward their own day-star, the young Napoleon.

And darest thou, presumptuous, now demand

That Heaven shall speed thy mad career

To spoil an unoffending land?

And darest thou hope that Heaven will hear?

Believe it not :-but for thyself beware;

And learn to moderate thy prayer :

Pray that kind Heaven will condescend

To grant thee rest and safety till thine end; And for the consummation of thy lot,

That old St. Denys will allow thee room

To sleep uncensured and forgot,

Among thy fathers in a silent tomb,

VERSES

SPOKEN IN THE THEATRE, OXFORD, AT THE INSTALLATION OF THE CHANCELLOR, LORD GRENVILLE, JULY 10, 1810, BY HENRY CROWE, A COMMONER OF WADHAM COLLEGE.

STILL through the realms of Europe far around

Echoes the martial trump, the Battle's sound:

There many a nation, now subdued and broke, In sullen silence wears the Tyrant's yoke:

There the fierce Victor waves his sword, and there

Stalks amid ruin, and the waste of war: