Part I

WHILE France her character maintain'd
For elegance and arts,
What time a lineal Monarch reign'd
Within his people's hearts:

Ere yet the servile foot had learn'd
On Nobles' necks to tread,
Or Anarchy a blinded land
With lawless fury sway'd;

Ere yet a foul Iscariot-band
Prophanely had imbru'd
Their impious, sacrilegious hands
In their mild master's blood,

FOSCUE, on LANGUEDOC'S fair plain,
In avarice grown old,
Whose only zeal was thirst of gain,
Whose only God was Gold:

FOSCUE, on LANGUEDOC'S fair plain,
Full long abode had held,
And there, by many a cruel deed,
His sordid bags had fill'd:

For his the usage was to farm
The Province from the State,
And to himself from lab'ring hinds
Foul profit to create:

And his the usage, to exact
Whate'er might ravag'd be,
To the extent of hard-earn'd gains,
From honest industry.

Yet many a meadow, fair and wide,
And many a fertile field,
Had wont to Tenant, as to Lord,
An ample tribute yield;

And many a thrifty family,
Beneath their humble shed,
By daily culture of the soil,
In peace and comfort fed,

Till FOSCUE's avaricious hand
Oppress'd the toiling poor,
Nor heeded he what they endur'd,
So he increas'd his store.

VALMONT, to better prospects born
Than lab'ring for his bread,
Thro' strange misfortune here was doom'd
To hide his drooping head;

Where Patience, the enduring child
Of calm Philosophy,
Had taught him to abide his lot,
Whate'er that lot might be.

Three Children, and a virtuous Wife,
His age's only store,
He daily toil'd to keep from want,
Nor did he covet more.

Protector, lab'rer, tutor, all,
Yet grudg'd he not the toil,
So by his little fire at eve
He could but see them smile.

Ah! woe the while!—a sudden blight
Spread desolation round,
And VALMONT's labours were bereft
The harvest of his ground.

FOSCUE the season's dues demands,
Demands with speech severe,
Nor him the kneeling children move,
Nor him the mother's tear.

Their humble furniture he seiz'd,
Their vestments, and their bed,
Nor left them wherewithal to buy
The wretched morrow's bread.

"Hast thou no pity?" VALMONT says,
"Thy end, fell fiend, beware,
"Lest thou, in turn, should'st wail and cry,
"Where none thy cries shall hear."

The door rapacious FOSCUE clos'd,
Withdrew, nor look'd behind,
But left the suppliants to endure,
The coming winter's wind.