1815 8

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On the Surrender of Paris to the Allies,
March 30, 1814

Samuel Ashby
The New Monthly Magazine, IV (August 1815), pp. 35-36

'Tis done! th' immortal deed is done!
    Gallia's imperial city bends;
    Her Tyrant's dread dominion ends;
France from his ruffian grasp is won!
Hark! how her shores resound the stroke,
The fell Usurper's spell that broke;
Burst is the charm, whose magic might
    Had bound her arm in Slavery's chain,
Suppress'd her voice, and seal'd her sight,
    And spread the desolating reign!
Rous'd from her trance, proud Gallia sees,
    Kings, heroes leagued, surround her walls;
    Her Tyrant's iron sceptre falls;
He falls! so righteous Heaven decrees!
Hark! how her shout of joy ascends,
Her Victors hail'd Deliverers! Friends!

Hail! heir of martyr'd Louis, hail!
    I see thy glory's Sun emerge
    Bright from yon gilt horizon's verge;
Its beams o'er adverse night prevail!
'Tis heaven illumes thy sacred cause,
    Directs thee to thy native throne;
Redeems thy kingdom, empire, laws,
    Restores the diadem, thine own!
Go! Call'd of heaven, thy rights assume,
    Go! from thy country's Spoiler wrest
    The ravag'd laurels of his crest,
And seize his helmet's regal plume!
I see its wreath of crimson die,
Blanch in the light'ning of thine eye!
I see his haughty visage fall;
    His tow'ring eagle quits the sky;
Perils his coward soul appal;
    I see him vanquish'd, see him fly!
Now is thy royal banner rear'd,
By honour's gallant sons rever'd,
Where pure thy native lilies grow,
Unstain'd with blood as alpine snow;
While Gallia shouts from shore to shore,
A bas le Tyran! Vive le Roi!

Now, Louis, let thy nobler soul,
    A more than mortal vengeance dare;
Yield not to rage's fierce controul,
    But bid thy prowess greatly spare!
Nor stoop thou to thy fallen foe,
    Nor let thy sword efface his shame;
Forbid a miscreant's blood to flow,
    Nor grant the death—a soldier's fame!
But, for thy wrongs, thy country's woes,
    The manes of her sainted King,
Leave him the rack of guilt's repose,
    Life, with remorse's scorpion sting!

Britain rejoice! the meed is thine;
    Europe thy great example caught;
    With thy subduing spirit fought;
Her's with thy victor palms intwine;
To thee her states deliverance own,
Her laurels grace thy triumph's crown!
Britannia, Europe's guardian Queen,
    The trophy-blazon'd field surveys;
Exulting views the dazzling scene,
    Concent'ring midst her glory's rays;
Her songs of praise to heaven ascend;
She bids triumphal arches bend;
Genii with olive deck her car,
    Her lion on her shield repose,
    The lily flourish with the rose,
Her conq'ring heroes cease from war!
Now be each hostile standard furl'd,
Freedom and Peace restore the world.

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