Specimens of French Poetry. 491 



If the bosom of the grove, 



Mystic grotto formed for love, 



Fail to please your icy hearts, 



Cease then your seductive arts ! 



If for you the evening fine 



Boast no more a charm divine, 



Charms that ravish me as yet, 



Then the name of love forget ; 

 Nor let your lips be ever heard 

 To utter that bewitching word ! 



AMABLE BOULANGER. 



ODE, 



On the Execution of the Assassin Fieschi. 



THE dread assassin is no more, 



His life has pass'd away, 

 And few his destiny deplore, 

 And none will shed a tear-drop o'er 



His decomposing clay. 

 Fiend from his breast were banished all 



The pure ideas of heav'n ; 

 And, to ensure the victim's fall, 



The thoughts of hell were giv'n ! 

 Strange sentiment of human pride, 

 That made the wretch a homicide ! 



Methought on earth was ne'er a bosom, 



Where, 'midst its evil intertwined, 

 There bloom'd no one unsullied blossom, 

 No gentle feeling of the mind, 

 By which the passions are refin'd, 

 And robb'd of half their native wildness. 

 Through this one single gleam of mildness, 

 Thus sun-lights o'er a battle shed 

 Their rays to gild the carnage dread. 

 Where jealousy, ambition, guile, 



Hate, envy, ruthlessness, are found, 

 Methought some gentle passion's smile 

 Could moderate their rage awhile, 

 And shine upon the clouds around. 



But no ! as when the shades of night 



Upon the ocean rest, 

 Without a single star to light 

 Nor make one lonely billow bright, 



So was the traitor's breast. 

 Foul mark for hist'ry's faithful page 



Will be the name he bore ; 

 Despised in every future age, 



Contemn'd on every shore. 

 Meanest of all the human race, 

 How can he meet his Maker's face ? 



Gallia ! to thee no common tie 



Connects thy king with sacred band ; 



He and his blooming progeny 

 Were bless'd by Heaven's almighty hand, 



