Oh, ’twas strange for a pupil of Paul to recline
On voluptuous couch, while Falernian wine
Fill’d
his cup to the brim!
Dulcet music of Greece, Asiatic repose,
Spicy fragrance of Araby, Italian rose,
All
united for him!
Every luxury known through the earth’s wide
expanse,
In profusion procured was put forth to enhance
The
repast that they gave;
And no Sybarite, nursed in the lap of delight,
Such a banquet ere tasted as welcomed that night
The
elect of the grave.
And the lion, meantime, shook his ponderous chain,
Loud and fierce howled the tiger, impatient to stain
The
bloodthirsty arena;
Whilst the women of Rome, who applauded those deeds
And who hailed the forthcoming enjoyment, must needs
Shame
the restless hyena.
They who figured as guests on that ultimate eve,
In their turn on the morrow were destined to give
To
the lions their food;
For, behold, in the guise of a slave at that board,
Where his victims enjoyed all that life can afford,
Death
administering stood.
Such, O monarchs of earth! was your banquet of power,
But the tocsin has burst on your festival hour—
’Tis
your knell that it rings!
To the popular tiger a prey is decreed,
And the maw of Republican hunger will feed
On
a banquet of Kings!
“FATHER PROUT” (FRANK MAHONY)
(DEDICATED TO CHATEAUBRIAND.)
[Bk. IV. vi., July, 1822.]
Woe unto him! the child of
this sad earth,
Who, in a troubled
world, unjust and blind,
Bears Genius—treasure
of celestial birth,
Within his solitary
soul enshrined.
Woe unto him! for Envy’s
pangs impure,
Like the undying
vultures’, will be driven
Into his noble heart, that
must endure
Pangs for each triumph; and, still unforgiven,
Suffer Prometheus’ doom, who ravished fire from
Heaven.
Still though his destiny on
earth may be
Grief and injustice;
who would not endure
With joyful calm, each proffered
agony;
Could he the prize
of Genius thus ensure?
What mortal feeling kindled
in his soul
That clear celestial
flame, so pure and high,
O’er which nor time
nor death can have control,
Would in inglorious
pleasures basely fly
From sufferings
whose reward is Immortality?
No! though the clamors of
the envious crowd
Pursue the son
of Genius, he will rise
From the dull clod, borne
by an effort proud
Beyond the reach
of vulgar enmities.
’Tis thus the eagle,
with his pinions spread,
Reposing o’er
the tempest, from that height
Sees the clouds reel and roll
above our head,
While he, rejoicing in his tranquil flight, More
upward soars sublime in heaven’s eternal light.
