FABLES

FOR

THE HOLY ALLIANCE.

FABLE I.

THE DISSOLUTION OF THE HOLY ALLIANCE.

A DREAM.

I'VE had a dream that bodes no good

Unto the Holy Brotherhood.

I

may be wrong, but I confess

As far as it is right or lawful
For one, no conjurer, to guess —

It seems to me extremely awful.

Methought, upon the Neva's flood
A beautiful Ice Palace stood,

A dome of frost-work, on the plan

Of that once built by Empress Anne*,

Which shone by moonlight-as the tale is
Like an Aurora Borealis.

In this said Palace, furnish'd all

And lighted as the best on land are,
I dreamt there was a splendid Ball,
Giv'n by the Emperor Alexander,
To entertain with all due zeal,

Those holy gentlemen, who've shown a
Regard so kind for Europe's weal,
At Troppau, Laybach, and Verona.

The thought was happy-and design'd
To hint how thus the human Mind
May, like the stream imprison'd there,
Be check'd and chill'd, till it can bear
The heaviest Kings, that ode or sonnet
E'er yet be-prais'd, to dance upon it.

"It is well known that the Empress Anne built a palace of ice on the Neva, in 1740, which was fifty-two feet in length, and when illuminated had a surprising effect."— PINKERTON.

And all were pleas'd, and cold, and stately,
Shivering in grand illumination-

Admir'd the superstructure greatly,

Nor gave one thought to the foundation. Much too the Czar himself exulted,

To all plebeian fears a stranger, For, Madame Krudener, when consulted, Had pledg'd her word there was no danger. So, on he caper'd, fearless quite,

Thinking himself extremely clever, And waltz'd away with all his might,

As if the Frost would last for ever.

Just fancy how a bard like me,

Who reverence monarchs, must have trembled

To see that goodly company,

At such a ticklish sport assembled.

Nor were the fears, that thus astounded
My loyal soul, at all unfounded —

For, lo! ere long, those walls so massy
Were seiz'd with an ill-omen'd dripping,
And o'er the floors, now growing glassy,

Their Holinesses took to slipping.

The Czar, half through a Polonaise,

Could scarce get on for downright stumbling; And Prussia, though to slippery ways

Well us'd, was cursedly near tumbling.

Yet still 'twas, who could stamp the floor most,
Russia and Austria 'mong the foremost.—
And now, to an Italian air,

This precious brace would, hand in hand, go;

Now while old Louis, from his chair,

Intreated them his toes to spare

Call'd loudly out for a Fandango.

And a Fandango, 'faith, they had,

At which they all set to, like mad!

Never were Kings (though small th' expense is

Of wit among their Excellencies)

So out of all their princely senses.

But, ah, that dance- that Spanish dance

Scarce was the luckless strain begun,
When, glaring red, as 'twere a glance
Shot from an angry Southern sun,
A light through all the chambers flam'd,
Astonishing old Father Frost,

Who, bursting into tears, exclaim'd,

"A thaw, by Jove-we're lost, we're lost! 66 Run, France-a second Waterloo "Is come to drown you- — sauve qui peut!"

Why, why will monarchs caper so
In palaces without foundations?
Instantly all was in a flow,

Crowns, fiddles, sceptres, decorations-
Those Royal Arms, that look'd so nice,
Cut out in the resplendent ice-
Those Eagles, handsomely provided

With double heads for double dealings-
How fast the globes and sceptres glided
Out of their claws on all the ceilings!
Proud Prussia's double bird of prey
Tame as a spatch cock, slunk away;
While-just like France herself, when she

Proclaims how great her naval skill is— Poor Louis' drowning fleurs-de-lys Imagin'd themselves water-lilies.

And not alone rooms, ceilings, shelves,
But still more fatal execution-