Canto VIII

Dejected by their loss, the states appear
Less haughty, and assume an humbler air,
Henry, such terror in their hearts had wrought,
Their king-creating schemes were all forgot;
Wavering and weak in counsel, and afraid
To crown their idol Mayenne, or to degrade,
By vain decrees they labor to complete
And ratify a power, not given him yet.

This self-commissioned chief, this king uncrowned
In chains of iron rule his faction bound;
His willing slaves obedient to his laws,
Resolve to fight and perish in his cause ;
Thus flushed with hope, to council he convenes
The haughty lords, on whom his fortune leans.
They come: despair, and unextinguished hate,
And malice on their faded features sate;
Some tremble in their pace, and feebly tread,
Faint with the loss of blood in battle shed,
But keen resentment prompts them to repair
Their losses, and revenge the wounds they bear.
Before the chief their sullen ranks they range,
And grasp their shining arms, and ,vow revenge.
So the fierce sons of earth, as fable feigns,
Where Pelion overlooks Thessalia’s plains,
With mountains piled on mountains, vainly strove,
To scale the everlasting throne of Jove.
When sudden on a car of radiant light
Exalted, Discord flashed upon their sight ;
“Courage,” she said, “’tis now the times demand
Your fixed resolves, lo! succor is at hand.”
First ran d’Aumale, and joyful from afar
Beheld the Spanish lances gleam in air;
Then cried aloud, “’Tis come; the expected aid,
So oft demanded, and so long delayed.”

Near to that hallowed spot, where rest revered
The relics of our kings, their march appeared ;
The groves of polished spears, the targets bound
With circling gold, the shining helms around,
Against the sun with full reflection play,
Rival his light and shed a second day.
To meet their march the roaring rabble went,
And hailed the mighty chief Madrid had sent;
That chief was Egmont ;' famed for martial fire,
Ambitious son of an unhappy sire;
At Brussels first he drew the vital air;
His country’s weal was all his father’s care,
For that, the rage of tyrants he defied,
And in the cause of freedom, bravely died.
The servile son, as base as he, was proud,
Fawned on that hand which shed his father’s blood,
For sordid interest joined his country’s foes,
And fought for France, regardless of her woes.
Philip, on Mayenne the warlike youth bestowed,
And armed him forth to be his guardian god;
Nor doubted Mayenne, but slaughter and dismay
Should spread to Bourbon’s tent, when Egmont led the way.
With heedless arrogance their march they drew,
And Henry’s heart exulted at the view,
Gods! how his eager hopes anticipate
And meet the moment that decides his fate.

Their streams where Iton and fair Eura lead,
By nature blest, a fertile plain is spread,
No wars had yet approached the peaceful scene,
Nor warrior’s footstep pressed the flowery green,
The shepherds there, while civil rage destroyed
The regions round, their happy hours enjoyed,
Screened by their poverty, they seemed secure
From lawless rapine and the soldier’s power,
Nor heard beneath their humble roofs the jar
Of arms, or clamor of the sounding war.

Thither each hostile leader his array
‘Directs, and desolation marks their way,
A sudden-horror strikes the trembling floods,
The frighted shepherds seek the sheltering woods,
The partners of their grief attend their flight,
And bear their weeping infants from the sight.

Ye hapless natives of this sweet recess!
Charge not‘at least your king with your distress,
For peace he courts the combat, and his hand
Shall shed the bounteous blessing o’er the land;
Nor seeks you, but to save you from your foes.

Along the ranks he darts his glancing eyes,
Swift as the winds his foaming courser flies,
Proud of his load, he catches with delight
The trumpets’ sound, and hopes the promised fight.

Crowned with his laurels, at their master’s side,
A well-distinguished group of warriors ride,
D’Aumont, beneath five kings a chief renowned,
Biron, whose name bore terror in the sound,
His son, whom toil nor danger could restrain,
Who soon alas !—but he was faithful then;
Grillon and Sully by the guilty feared,
Chiefs whom the League detested, yet revered,
Turenne, whose virtues and unrivalled fame,
Won the fair honors of the Bouillon name,
Ill-fated power alas! and ill-maintained,
Crushed in the birth, and lost as soon as gained.
His crest amid the band brave Essex rears,
And like a palm beneath our skies appears,
Among our elms the lofty stranger shoves
His growth, as if he scorned the native groves.
From his bright casque with Orient gems arrayed
And burnished gold, a starry lustre played ;
Dear, valued gifts! with which his mistress strove
Less to reward his courage, than his love.
Ambitious chief! the mighty bulwark grown
Of Gallia’s prince, and darling of his own.
Such was the monarch’s train, with steadfast air
And firm, they wait the signal of the war,
Glad omens from their Henry’s eyes they took,
And read their conquest sure in his inspiring look.

’Twas then, afflicted with inglorious dread,
Unhappy Mayenne perceived his courage fled,
Whether at length his boding heart divines
The wrath of heaven on his unjust designs,
Whether the soul prophetic of our doom,
Foresees the dreary train of ills to come,
Whate’er the cause, he feels a chilling fear,
But veils it with a show of seeming cheer,
Inspires his troops with ardor of renown,
And fills their hearts with hopes that dwell not in his own.

But Egmont at his side, with glory fired,
And the rash confidence his youth inspired,
Flushed for the fight, and eager to display
His prowess, chides his infamous delay.
As when the Thracian courser from afar,
Hears the shrill trumpet and the sound of war,
A martial fire informs his vivid eye,
He neighs, he snorts, he bears his head on high,
Impatient of restraint he scorns the rein,
Springs o’er the fence and scours along the plain ;
Such Egmont seemed, with beating heart he stood,
And in his eye the rage of battle glowed.
Even now he ponders his approaching fame,
And looks on conquest as his rightful claim ;
Alas! he dreams not that his pride shall gain
Naught but a grave, in Ivry’s fatal plain.

Bourbon at length drew near, and,thus inspired
His ardent warriors whom his presence fired :
“Ye sons of France! your king is at your head,
You see your foes, then follow where I lead,
Mark well this waving plume amid the fight,
Nor let the tempest shade it from your sight,
To that alone direct your constant aim,
Still sure to find it in the road to fame.”
Thus spoke the chief ; his bands exulting hear,
And with new fury court the glorious war;
Then marched, and as he went, his pious breast
With silent prayers: the God of hosts addressed.
At once the legions rush with headlong pace
Behind their chiefs, and snatch the middle space.
So where the seas with narrow Frith divide
Cantabria’s coasts from Afric’s desert side,
If eastern storms along the channel pour,
Sudden the fierce conflicting oceans roar,
Earth trembles at the shock, the sheeted brine
Invades the skies, the sun forgets to shine,
The trembling Moor believes all nature hurled
In ruin, and expects the falling world.

Now lengthened with the spear the musket spread
The carnage wide, and flew with double speed,
That fatal engine in Bayonne designed,
And framed by Discord to lay waste mankind,
Strikes a twin death, and can at once afford
The worst effect of fire, and havoc of the sword.
Trembled th’ steadfast earth beneath their feet
As sword to sword and lance to lance they meet,
From rank to rank despair and horror strode,
The shame of flight and impious thirst of blood.
Here from his stronger son the father flies,
There by the brother’s arm. the brother dies,
Nature was shocked, and Eura’s conscious bank
Shrank with abhorrence from the blood it drank.
Bourbon his path right on to glory clears
Through bristling forests of extended spears,
O’er many a crested helm his course he sped ;
Close in his rear, serene and undismayed
Went Mornay, thoughtful and intent alone
On Henry’s life, regardless of his own.
So, veiled in human shape, the poets feign
The gods engaged in arms on Phrygia’s plain;
“So when an angel by divine command,
With rising tempests shakes a guilty land,
Well pleased the Almighty’s orders to perform,
He rides the whirlwind; and directs the storm.”
The royal chief his dread commands expressed,
The prudent dictates of a hero’s breast,
Mornay the mighty charge attentive caught,
And bore it where the distant leaders fought,
The distant. leaders to their troops convey
The word, their troops receive it, and obey.
They part, they join, in various forms are seen,
One soul,informs and guides the vast machine.
Swift through the field returned in haste he seeks
The prince, accosts, and guards him while he speaks.
But still the stoic warrior kept unstained
With human blood, his inoffensive hand,
The king alone employed his generous. thought,
For his defence the embattled field, he fought,
Detested war, and singularly brave
Knew boldly to face death, but never gave.

Turenne already with resistless power,
Repulsed the shattered forces of Nemours ;
Scarce d’Ailly filled the plain, with dire alarms,
Proud of his thirty years consumed in arms;
Still spite of age the veteran chief displays
The well-strung vigor of his youthful days ;
Of all his foes, one only would presume
To match his might, a hero in the bloom ;
Now first indignant to the field he came,
And parted eager for the goal of fame.
New to the taste of Hymen, yet he fled
The chaste endearments of his bridal bed,
Disdained the trivial praise by beauty won,
And panted for a soldier’s fame alone.
That cruel morn, accusing heaven in vain,
And the cursed League that called him to the plain,
His beauteous bride with trembling fingers laced
His heavy corslet on her hero’s breast,
And covered with his helm of polished gold
Those eyes which still she languished to behold.

Towards d’Ailly the fierce youth, despising fear,
Spurred his proud steed, and couched his quivering spear,
Their headlong coursers trampled, as they fled,
The wounded heaps, the dying and the dead;
Poachy with blood the turf and matted grass,
Sink fetlock deep beneath them as they pass.
Swift to the shock they come; their shields sustain
The blow, their spears well pointed but in vain,
In scattered splinters shine upon the plain.
So when two clouds with thunder fraught draw near,
And join their dark encounter in mid air,
Struck from their sides the lightning quivers round,
Heaven roars, and mortals tremble at the sound.
Now from their steeds with unabated rage
Alighting swift, a closer war they wage;
Ran Discord to the scene, and near her stood
Death’s horrid spectre, pale and smeared with blood.
Already shine their falchions in their hands,
No kind preventing power their rage withstands,
The doom is past, their destiny commands.
Full at each other’s heart they aim alike,
Nor knows their fury at whose heart they strike ;
Their bucklers clash, thick strokes descend from high,
And flakes of fire from their hard helmets fly,
Blood stains their hands, but still the tempered plate
Retards a while and disappoints their fate.
Each wondering at the long unfinished fight,
Esteems his rival and admires his might;
Till d’Ailly with a vigorous effort found
The fatal pass, and stretched him on the ground.
His faded eyes forever closed remain,
And his loose helmet rolls along the plain ;
Then saw the wretched chief, too surely known,
The kindred features, and embraced his son.
But soon with horror and remorse oppressed,
Reversed the guilty steel against his breast.
That just revenge his hastening friends oppose;
When furious from the dreadful scene he rose;
Forth to the woods his cheerless journey sped,
From arms forever and from glory fled,
And in the covert of a shaggy den,
Dwells a sad exile from the ways of men.
There when the dawning day salutes, the skies,
And when at eve the chilling vapors rise,
‘His unexhausted grief still flows the same,
Still echo sighs around his son’s lamented. name.
Tender alarms, and boding terrors brought
The bride inquiring to the fatal spot,
Uncertain of her doom, with anxious haste
And faltering knees between the dead she passed,
Till stretched upon the plain her lord she spied,
Then shrieked, and sank expiring at his side.
The damps of death upon her temples hung,
And feeble sounds faint issued from, her tongue,
Once more her eyes a last farewell assayed,
Once more her lips upon his lips she laid,
Within her arms the lifeless body pressed,
Then looked, then sighed, then died upon his breast.

Deplored examples of rebellious strife,
Ill-fated victims, father, son, and wife,
Oh may the sad remembrance of your woe,
Teach tears from ages yet unborn, to flow,
With wholesome sorrow touch-all future times,
And save the children from their father’s crimes.

But say what chief disperses thus abroad
The flying League, what hero, or what god?
’Tis Biron, ’tis his, youthful arm o’erthrows
And drives along the plain his scattered foes.
D’Aumale beheld, and maddening at the sight,
“Stand fast,” he cried, “and stay your coward flight;
Friends of the Guise and, Mayenne, their vengeance due
Rome and the Church and France expect from you;
Return then, and your pristine force recall,
Conquest is theirs who fight beneath d’Aumale.”
Fosseuse assisting and Beauveau sustain
Their part, and rally the disordered train,
Before the van d’Aumale his station took,
And the closed lines caught courage from his look.
The chance of war now flows a backward course,
Biron in vain withstands the driving force,
Nesle and Angenne within his sight are slain,
And Parabere and Clermont press the plain,
Himself scarce lived, so fast the purple tide
Flowed from his wounds, and happier, had he died.
A death so glorious with unfading fame
Forever had adorned the hero’s name.

Soon learned the royal chief to what distress
The youth was fallen, courageous in excess ;
He loved him, not as monarchs condescend
To love, but well, and plainly as a friend,
Nor thought a subject’s blood so mean a thing,
A smile alone o’erpaid it from a king.
Hail heaven-born friendship! the delight alone
Of noble minds, and banished from the throne.
Eager he flies, the generous fires that feed
His heart augment his vigor and his speed.
He came, and Biron kindling at the view,
His gathered strength to one last effort drew,
Cheered by the well-known voice again he plies
The sword, all force before the monarch flies,
The king redeems thee from the unequal strife
Rash youth, be faithful and deserve thy life.

Hark! a loud peal comes thundering from afar,
’Tis Discord blows afresh the flames of war,
To thwart the monarch’s virtue, with new fires
His fainting foes the beldam fiend inspires:
And mountains tremble at the infernal sound.
Swift to d’Aumale the baleful notes impart
Their power, he feels the summons at his heart ;
Bourbon alone he seeks: the boisterous throng
Close at his heels tumultuous pour along.
So the well-scented pack, long trained to blood,
Deep in the covert of a spacious wood,
Bay the fierce boar to battle, and elate
With heedless wrath rush headlong on their fate,
The shrillness of the cheering horn provokes
Their rage, and echoes from the distant rocks.
Thus stood the monarch by the crowd enclosed,
A host against his single arm opposed,
No friend at hand, no welcome aid he found,
Abandoned, and by death encompassed round.
’T was then his sainted sire his strength renewed
With tenfold force and vigor unsubdued,
Firm as a rock, poised on its base he stood,
That braves the blast, and scorns the dashing flood.
Who shall relate, alas! what heroes died
In that dread hour on Eura’s purple side.
Shade of the first of kings, do thou diffuse
Thy spirit o’er my song, be thou my muse.
Now from afar his gathering nobles came,
They died for Bourbon, and he fought for them,
When Egmont rushed with yet unrivalled force,
To check the storm and thwart the monarch’s course.

Long had the chief, misled by martial pride,
Sought Henry through the combat far and wide,
Nor cared he, so his venturous arm might meet
That strife, for aught of danger or defeat.
“Bourbon,” he cried, “advance ; behold a foe
Prepared to plant fresh laurels on your brow;
‘Now let your arm its utmost might display,
Ours be the strife, let us decide the day.”
He spoke, and lo! portentous from on high
A stream of lightning shot along the sky,
Slow peals of muttering thunder growled around,
Beneath the trembling soldier shook the ground.
Egmont, alas! a flattering omen draws,
And dreams that heaven shall combat in his cause,
That partial nature in his glory shared,
And by the thunder’s voice his victory declared.
At the first onset with full force applied
His driving falchion reached the monarch’s side,
Fast flowed a stream of his life blood, though slight
The wound, and Egmont triumphed at the sight.
But Bourbon unconcerned received the blow,
And with redoubled ardor pressed his foe;
Pleased when the field of glory could afford
A conquest hardly earned and worthy of his sword.
The stinging smart served only to provoke
His rage, and add new vigor to his stroke.
He springs upon the blow; the champion reels,
And the keen edge within his bosom feels,
O’erthrown beneath the trampling hoof he lies,
And death’s dim shadow skims before his eyes,
He sees the dreary regions of the dead,
And shrinks and shudders at his father’s shade.

Then first, their leader slain, the Iberian host
Declined the fight, their vaunted spirit lost,
Like a contagion their unwarlike fear
Seized all the ranks and caught from van to rear.
General and soldier felt the same dismay,
Nor longer these command, nor those obey.
Down fall the banners, routed and o’erthrown
And yelling with unmanly shrieks they run ;
Some bend the suppliant knee, submissive join
Their hands, and to the chain their wrists resign,
Some from the fierce pursuer wildly fled,
And to the river swift their footsteps sped,
There plunged downright, amid the foaming tide
They sink, and meet the death they would avoid.
The waves encumbered seem to change their course,
And the choked stream recoils upon its source.

Mayenne in the tumult of this troubled scene
Lord of himself, afflicted, yet serene,
Surveyed his loss still tranquil and sedate,
And even in ruin hoped a better fate.
D’Aumale, his eyes in burning rage suffused,
His cruel stars and dastard bands accused.
“Tis lost,” he cried, “see where the cowards fly,
Illustrious Mayenne! our task then is to die.”
“Die!” said the chief, “live rather ito replace
Our fortune, and sustain the cause you grace,
Live to regain the laurels we have lost,
Nor now desert us, when we need you most.
Fly then, and where they straggle o'er the plain,
Glean up the wreck and remnant of our train.”
He hears, reluctant sobs his passion speaks,
And tears of anguish trickle down his cheeks,
A slow compliance sullenly he pays,
And frowning stern sat the command, obeys.
Thus the proud lion whom the Moor has tamed,
And from the fierceness of this race reclaimed,
Bows down beneath his swarthy master’s hand,
And bends his surly front at his command,
With lowering aspect stalks behind his lord,
And grumbles while he crouches at his. word.

Meanwhile in flight unhappy Mayenne confides,
And close within the walls his shame he hides ;
Prone at the monarch’s feet the vanquished wait
From his award, the sentence of their fate ;
When from the firmament’s unfolded space
Appeared the manes of the Bourbon race;
Louis in that important hour came down,
To gaze intent upon his godlike son,
To prove if the triumphant chief could tame
His soul to mercy, and deserve his fame.
The assembled captives by their looks besought
The monarch’s grace, but trembled at their Jot,
When thus with gentle, but determined look,
The suppliant crowd the mighty chief bespoke.
“Be free, and use your freedom as you may,
Free to take arms against me, or obey;
On Mayenne or me let your election rest,
His be the sceptre who deserves it best,
Choose your own portion, your own fate decree,
Chains from the League, or victory with me.”

Astonished that a king with glory crowned,
And lord of the subjected plains around,
Even in the lap of triumph should forego.
His right of arms, and vantage o’er the foe,
His grateful captives hail him at his feet
Victorious, and rejoice in their defeat.
No longer hatred rankles in their minds,
His might subdued them, and his bounty binds,
Proudly they mingle with the monarch’s train,
And turn their juster vengeance on Mayenne.

Now Bourbon merciful and mild had stayed
The carnage, and the soldier’s wrath allayed;
No longer through the ranks he cleaves his way,
Fierce as the lion bearing on his prey,
But seems a bounteous deity, inclined
To quell the tempest, and to cheer mankind.
Peace o’er his brows had shed a milder grace,
And smoothed the warlike terrors of his face;
Snatched from the jaws of the devouring strife,
His captives feel themselves restored to life,
Their dangers he repels, their wants supplies,
And views and guards them with a parent’s eyes.

Fame, the swift messenger of false and true,
Still as she flies increasing to the view,
O’er mountains and o’er seas, from clime to clime,
Expatiates, rapid as the flight of time.
Millions of piercing eyes to fame belong,
As many mouths still ply the restless tongue,
And round with listening ears her miscreant form is hung.
Where’er she roams, credulity is there,
And curiosity with craving ear,
And doubt, and hope, and ever-boding fear.
With the same speed she bears upon her wings
From far, the glory and the shame of kings,
And now unfolds them, eager to proclaim
Great Henry’s deeds, and fill the nations with his name.
From Tagus swift to Po the tidings ran,
And echoed through the lofty Vatican.
Joy to the North the spreading sounds convey,
To Spain, confusion, terror and dismay.
Ill-fated Paris, and thou faithless League,
Ye priests, full-fraught with malice and intrigue,
How trembled then your temples, and what dread
Disastrous, hung o’er every guilty head!
But see your guardian deity appears,
See Mayenne returning to dispel your fears!
Though foiled, not lost, not hopeless though o’erthrown,
For still rebellious Paris is his own.
With specious gloss he covers his defeat,
Calls ruin, victory, and flight, retreat,
Confirms the doubtful, and with prudent aim
Seeks by concealing, to repair his shame.
Transient, alas! the joy that art supplies,
For cruel truth soon scattered the disguise,
And opened all its horrors to their view.

“Not thus,” the fury cried, with raging mind,
“Shall Discord’s power be conquered, and confined :
'Tis not for this these wretched walls have seen
Torrents of blood, and mountains of the slain:
’Tis not for this the raging fires have shone,
That hated Bourbon might enjoy the throne.
Henceforth by weakness be his mind assailed,
Weakness may triumph where the sword has failed.
Force is but vain; all other hopes are gone:
For Henry yields but to himself alone.
This day shall beauty’s charms his bosom warm;
Subdue his valor, and unnerve his arm.”

Thus Discord spoke; and, through the fields of air,
Drawn by fierce hatred on her blood-stained car,
Swiftly repaired to Cytherea’s grove
Assured of vengeance, and in search of love.
Clouds of thick darkness then obscured the day,
Nature turned pale, and horror marked her way.