Tea at Trianon: Poem in Honor of Marie-Antoinette

John Wilson Croker on Marie-Antoinette

"We have followed the history of Marie Antoinette with the greatest diligence and scrupulosity. We have lived in those times. We have talked with some of her friends and some of her enemies; we have read, certainly not all, but hundreds of the libels written against her; and we have, in short, examined her life with– if we may be allowed to say so of ourselves– something of the accuracy of contemporaries, the diligence of inquirers, and the impartiality of historians, all combined; and we feel it our duty to declare, in as a solemn a manner as literature admits of, our well-matured opinion that every reproach against the morals of the queen was a gross calumny– that she was, as we have said, one of the purest of human beings."

~from History of the Guillotine by John Wilson Croker, 1844

Edmund Burke on Marie-Antoinette

"It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the queen of France, then dauphiness, at Versailles; and surely there never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she had just begun to move in, glittering like a morning star full of life and splendor and joy. Oh, what a revolution....Little did I dream that I should have lived to see such disasters fall upon her, in a nation of gallant men, in a nation of men of honor and of cavaliers! I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards, to avenge even a look which threatened her with insult. But the age of chivalry is gone; that of sophisters, economists, and calculators has succeeded...."

~Edmund Burke, October 1790

Wednesday, November 20, 2013

Poem in Honor of Marie-Antoinette

From Vive la Reine:

Who is that pale yet stately one,
Robb’d of her royal pride?
The throne, the crown, all from her gone—
The sceptre thrown aside?
Is this the haughty Austrian
That meets each scornful glance?
And will she never reign again
As the proud Queen of France?

Alas! poor, hapless one! thy brow
Is furrowed o’er with care—
For grief has made thy form to bow,
And silvered o’er thy hair!
This day of bitter agony
Has sealed thy doom to die;
Yet not one murmur comes from thee-
No tear drop dims the eye!