ore of motley than their heavy kings.
Jews, authors, generals, charlatans, combine, 710
While Europe wonders at the vast design:
There Metternich, power's foremost parasite,
Cajoles; there Wellington forgets to fight;
There Chateaubriand[342] forms new books of martyrs;
And subtle Greeks[343] intrigue for stupid Tartars;
There Montmorenci, the sworn foe to charters,[344]
Turns a diplomatist of great eclat,
To furnish articles for the "Debats;"
Of war so certain--yet not quite so sure
As his dismissal in the "Moniteur." 720
Alas! how could his cabinet thus err!
Can Peace be worth an ultra-minister?
He falls indeed, perhaps to rise again,
"Almost as quickly as he conquered Spain.[345]"

XVII.

Enough of this--a sight more mournful woos
The averted eye of the reluctant Muse.
The Imperial daughter, the Imperial bride,[346]
The imperial Victim--sacrifice to pride;
The mother of the Hero's hope, the boy,
The young Astyanax of Modern Troy;[347] 730
The still pale shadow of the loftiest Queen
That Earth has yet to see, or e'er hath seen;
She flits amidst the phantoms of the hour,
The theme of pity, and the wreck of power.
Oh, cruel mockery! Could not Austria spare
A daughter? What did France's widow there?
Her fitter place was by St. Helen's wave,
Her only throne is in Napoleon's grave.
But, no,--she still must hold a petty reign,
Flanked by her formidable chamberlain; 740
The martial Argus, whose not hundred eyes[348]
Must watch her through these paltry pageantries.
What though she share no more, and shared in vain,
A sway surpassing that of Charlemagne,
Which swept from Moscow to the southern seas!
Yet still she rules the pastoral realm of cheese,
Where Parma views the traveller resort,
To note the trappings of her mimic court.
But she appears! Verona sees her shorn
Of all her beams--while nations gaze and mourn-- 750
Ere yet her husband's ashes have had time
To chill in their inhospitable clime;
(If e'er those awful ashes can grow cold;--
But no,--their embers soon will burst the mould;)
She comes!--the Andromache (but not Racine's,
Nor Homer's,)--Lo! on Pyrrhus' arm[349] she leans![ew]
Yes! the right arm, ye