Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
France: Vols. IX–X. 1876–79.
Address to the Orange-tree at Versailles
By Horace Smith (1779–1849)W
And heads, as well as crowns, were shorn
From royal shoulders,
One Bourbon, in unaltered plight,
Hath still maintained its regal right,
And held its court,—a goodly sight
To all beholders.
Hast sat uninjured on thy throne,
Seeing the war range;
And when the great Nassaus were sent
Crownless away, (a sad event!)
Thou didst uphold and represent
The House of Orange.
Each grand monarque, and king and queen,
Of French extraction,
Might puzzle those who don’t conceive
French history, so I believe
Comparing thee with ours will give
More satisfaction.
The papers say (but that ’s no proof)
Is nearly rotten,
Existed but in stones and trees,
When thou wert waving in the breeze,
And blossoms (what a treat for bees!)
By scores hadst gotten.
Has antiquated every chime,
And from his tomb outworn each rhyme
Within the Abbey;
And Gower, an older poet whom
The Borough Church enshrines (his tomb,
Though once restored, has lost its bloom,
And got quite shabby,)
Was beating monks when thou in France
By monks wert beaten,
Who shook beneath this very tree
Their reverend beards, with glutton glee,
As each down-falling luxury
Was caught and eaten.
Of Agincourt, some Gaulish knight,
(His bleeding steed in woful plight,
With smoking haunches,)
Laid down his helmet at thy root,
And, as he plucked the grateful fruit,
Suffered his poor exhausted brute
To crop thy branches.
When first the Turks besieged and took
Constantinople;
And eagles in thy boughs might perch,
When, leaving Bullen in the lurch,
Another Henry changed his church,
And used the Pope ill.
Lounging beneath thy shady green,
With monks as lazy;
Louis Quatorze has pressed that ground,
With his six mistresses around,—
A sample of the old and sound
Legitimacy.
Brought on the inevitable crisis
Of revolution,
Thou heard’st the mob’s infuriate shriek,
Who came their victim queen to seek,
On guiltless heads the wrath to wreak
Of retribution.
Hast thou in thine eventful time
Been made beholder!
What wars, what feuds,—the thoughts appall!
Each against each, and all with all,
Till races upon races fall,
In earth to moulder.
(Such are the constant gifts and balm
Bestowed by Nature!)
Hast year by year renewed thy flowers,
And perfumed the surrounding bowers,
And poured down grateful fruit by showers,
And proffered shade in summer hours
To man and creature.
Whate’er the future doom may be,
By fortune given,
Remember that a rhymester brought
From foreign shores thine umbrage sought,
Recalled the blessings thou hadst wrought,
And, as he thanked thee, raised his thought
To heaven!