Go, say--I sent thee forth to purchase honour,
And not--the king exiled thee: or suppose,
Devouring pestilence hangs in our air,
And thou art flying to a fresher clime.
Look, what thy soul holds dear, imagine it
To lie that way thou go'st, not whence thou comest:
Suppose the singing birds musicians;
The grass whereon thou tread'st, the presence strew'd;
The flowers, fair ladies; and thy steps, no more
Than a delightful measure, or a dance;
For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite
The man that mocks at it, and sets it light.
Even Napoleon, whose wounds were almost green at his death, sought to
chase away the recollections of his ill-starred splendour, by rides and
walks in the island, and conversation with his suite in his garden; and
Louis XVIII. after his restoration to the throne of France, passed few
such happy days as his exile at Hartwell, which though only a pleasant
seat enough, had more comfort than the gilded saloons of Versailles, or
the hurly-burly of the Tuilleries, with treason hatching in the street
beneath the windows, and revolution stinking in the very nostrils of the
court. Shakspeare might well call a crown a
Polished perturbation! golden care!
and add--
O majesty!
When thou dost pinch thy bearer, thou dost sit
Like a rich armour worn in heat of day,
That scalds with safety.
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