Крисчен Милн (Christian Milne)

On Buonaparte's Coronation

'TIS painful to a Briton's eyes,
To see a tyrant in disguise
Usurping LOUIS ' throne;
While Peers and Prelates round him crowd,
And incense pour, 'mid praises loud,
To prop his brittle crown!
Are his vile features drest in smiles,
While in his breast ambition boils,
Black cruelty and pride?
Equipt in royalty he stands--
A guilty heart and bloody hands
He vainly thinks 'twill hide.
When Gaul with royalty was cloy'd,
She BOURBON 's hapless race destroy'd
With fierce remorseless hand!
For Liberty so loud she cry'd,
The hideous sound spread far and wide
Thro' many a distant land.
'Twas then the Corsican drew nigh,
And view'd, with deep designing eye,
Gaul's sad disjointed frame;
He fed the frenzy of the times,
And led them on, thro' blood and crimes,
By Freedom's empty name.
He strove around licentious hearts
To wind himself, by all the arts
Ambition could suggest:
"On! Gauls," he cry'd; "let us tread down
"Each head that wears a regal crown,
"And set the world at rest!"
From shore to shore he Frenchmen drew,
And still to their deluded view
The shade of Freedom held:
Nay, onwards still his hordes he leads
With--"Freedom will reward your deeds,
"Atchiev'd in battle's field!"
But boots it aught the blood ye spilt,
And battle's hardships keenly felt,
Ye changeful sons of France?
Where is the boon for which ye've fought?
Instead of Liberty, ye've bought
A tyrant's murd'ring lance!
Yet, maugre all his vengeful spite,
Draw the vile Corsican to light,
And pull his mask aside;
Ye groan beneath tyrannic sway--
Quick! throw oppression's load away,
And dash the tyrant's pride.
Set virtuous LOUIS on his throne;
You give him still but what's his own
By undisputed right:
O'er Gallia's war-beclouded land,
Then peace once more, by Heaven's command,
Will bless your ravish'd sight.

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