Page:Voltaire (Hamley).djvu/87

What will ye say, ye races yet unborn,
Who learn the cruel wrong these Arts forlorn
Endure from those who rob the dead of peace?
 A grave they her deny with scorn—
Her, to whom altars had been raised in Greece,
Flattered, adored, while she on earth remained,
 I saw obsequious crowds her glance await.
She dies—and so the idol is profaned !
 She charmed the world—a sin to expiate

Henceforth that bank of Seine is holy ground;
 The spot where thy rejected dust finds room,
By thy shade hallowed, in our verse renowned,
 Is more a temple than a tomb.
Here my Saint Denis^[1] is. I reverent bow
 Before the shrine of genius, spirit, grace;
I loved them living, I adore them now,
 Despite the grisly king's embrace—
 Despite the ungrateful and the base,
Who bear this grave's dishonour deep, not thou.

Ah! must we always see our daily life,
So light and gay, with bigot laws at strife?
Our fickle race, whose views uncentred range,
Exalt, disparage, as the mood may change?
 Is there no land but England where
 Man's thought is free, and gains free birth?
Rival of Athens, region blest and fair,
 That, with its other tyrants, has cast forth
Old shameful bigotries; where sages dare
 Speak all their thought, where honour waits on worth
No art is scorned there, no achievement vain;
The conqueror of our host on Blenheim's plain,
Dryden the lofty, Addison the wise,
Sweet Oldfield,^[2] Newton, reader of the skies—

1. The burial-place of French royalty.
2. Mrs Oldfield, the famous actress, died in the same year as Mlle Le Couvreur, and was buried in Westininster Abbey.