TO THE LOIRE.
Who, that surveys thy waves in placid tide,
Like liquid silver shining as they glide;
Now kindly kissing each impending bough,
Which bathes its verdure in thy stream below,
Now coyly curling, with inconstant smile,
To shun the green bank of some flowery isle;
Who, that thus views thy beauties, could suppose
That once, O Loire! thy stream (though now it flows
So fair and tranquil) swallow'djn its wave
Myriads of heroes, generous as brave;
Heroes, who nobly fought to save their king,
When Civil War unfurl'd her baleful wing,
And rushing down with her accursed brood,
Steep'd her foul pinions in a sea of blood:—
Who, that now sees thee smiling o'er thy bed,
Could think thy stream had thus borne down the dead,
Or guess, that erst had perished in thy flood
All that the scaffold spared of great and good,
While Carrier*, crimson'd with Vendean gore,
Fiendlike, survey'd the noyades from thy shore ?
Thus oft a form, which seems so fresh and fair, That nought, we think, of vile could linger there, Serves to conceal a soul, where Sin and Crime Are stamp'd so blackly by the hand of time,
- Carrier commanded at Nantes during the reign of terror, and superintended the noyades.
