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THE BATTLE OF FONTENOY. - The Works of Voltaire, Vol. X The Dramatic Works Part 1 (Zaire, Caesar, The Prodigal, Prefaces) and Part II (The Lisbon Earthquake and Other Poems).

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THE BATTLE OF FONTENOY. - Voltaire, The Works of Voltaire, Vol. X The Dramatic Works Part 1 (Zaire, Caesar, The Prodigal, Prefaces) and Part II (The Lisbon Earthquake and Other Poems). [1901]

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From The Works of Voltaire, A Contemporary Version, (New York: E.R. DuMont, 1901), A Critique and Biography by John Morley, notes by Tobias Smollett, trans. William F. Fleming. Vol. X The Dramatic Works Part 1 (Zaire, Caesar, The Prodigal, Prefaces) and Part II (The Lisbon Earthquake and Other Poems).

Author: Voltaire
Translator: William F. Fleming
Notes: Tobias Smollett

Part of: The Works of Voltaire. A Contemporary Version, in 21 vols.

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THE BATTLE OF FONTENOY.

What! could the bard, whose famed satiric lays
Have gained a wreath of never-fading bays,
With voice inspired by energy divine,
Paint deluged o’er with blood the banks of Rhine;
Sing, how her billows, struck with horror, fled,
While her defenders round by thousands bled;
How even her god was seized with dire dismay,
And to our conquering ancestors gave way!
And when your king, in field with crimson dyed,
Sees instant death fly round on every side;
And from proud Tournay, where with ceaseless roar
His deadly engines urged the siege before,
Retires, suspending the besieger’s rage,
And takes the field impatient to engage;
Whilst his great son by love of glory led,
For tented fields forsakes the nuptial bed:
Great through his valor, happy through his care,
Can you, my countrymen, to praise forbear?
Behold your monarch deathless glory gain,
Where Fontenoy extends her spacious plain.
Glory and virtue, powers divine, attend,
You, who our monarch aid, and who defend;
Bellona, goddess of the dreadful fight,
Minerva, who in wisdom dost delight,
Thou ruling passion of each generous heart,
Our country’s love, your succor now impart;
My laboring breast, oh! powers divine, inspire,
And fill the poet with a warrior’s fire;
Paint their great actions on a deathless page,
Such as may live to every distant age:
My soul on fancy’s pinions wings her way,
The adverse hosts already I survey;
Their bands I see with mutual hate engage,
I see the battle glow with tenfold rage;
I see the haughty Saxon there advance,
Maurice,* among us deemed a son of France:
Hov’ring upon the brink of endless night,
His soul was just prepared to take its flight;
But he delayed, he stopped its flying wing,
He could not unassisted leave the king:
One single day to live was his desire,
Contented after conquest to expire.
Propitious heaven, watch o’er the hero’s ways,
For Louis’s sake and ours prolong his days.
The French forsaking, Harcourt† joins our host,
Each danger is foreseen, assigned each post;
Attached both to his country and the throne,
Noailles,‡ the good of France regards alone.
The mighty d’Eu,§ whose birth from Condé springs,
D’Eu, whose right arm the Gallic lightning wings;
The chief,* for youth remarked, for valor more,
Whose great exploits the Main had seen before;
Bouflers and Luxembourg untaught to yield,
Depons, Bavaria, hasten to the field;
The stroke decisive at their posts they wait,
Their men attend with sanguine hope elate:
Danoy,† who still with fortune favor found;
Berenger for the Rhine’s defence renowned;
Chabanes, Colbert, and Gallerande advance,
Du Chaila, all the hardy chiefs of France;‡
These, in the silent horror of the night,
Wait with impatience for the promised fight.
Already from the East, the dawn of day
Upon the colors darts a feeble rav,
Colors which many different nations bear.
That threatening death wave proudly in the air.
The Flemings ruled by France in time of yore,
Who then knew plenty which they know no more;
The Dutch to whom the Indies homage pay,
By industry and freedom raised to sway,
Who long oppressed by Austria’s laws severe,
Now arm for those whose yoke they could not bear;
The Hanoverian’s constant, faithful band,
To combat brave, and prompt to obey command;
The haughty Austrians of past greatness vain,
And the long glories of their Cæsar’s reign;
Chief the aspiring nation that with pride
Beholds her greatness swell on every side,
And of the Gallic glory jealous still,
Thinks Europe’s balance subject to her will;
All these pour on us eager to engage,
By hope seduced, by hatred fired to rage.
The never-conquered genius of the state
Attends our monarch, and defies their hate.
Roused by the din of war, the gods repair,
From rivers, woods, and floods, to fields of air;
Doubtful for whom their silver stream shall flow,
And in whose fertile plains their harvests grow.
Fortune displays a laurel wreath on high,
And hovering near them wings the azure sky,
Provoked that independent of her sway,
Valor alone shall win the glorious day.
Cumberland, who the allied hosts commands,
To firm array draws out his hardy bands;
Not where Scamander flowed in many a round,
Under those walls in ancient song renowned,
Did the great heroes of that famous age,
Like these with order in the field engage?
But such was Scipio, such the chief whose fate
In ruin plunged the Carthaginian state;
Skill, equal to their courage, they displayed,
Each to his rival’s worth due homage paid.
Ruin and death in various forms appear,
But Louis’s dauntless bosom knows no fear.
With their rude throats a hundred cannon gave
The signal, then marched forth the squadron brave;
With firm and speedy pace, in just array,
Towards our ranks they took their hostile way;
Before them terror stalks, a phantom dire,
Onward they march, environed round with fire;
Thus a thick cloud by winds is borne on high,
Whence lightning, thunder, and destruction fly.
They come, those rivals of our monarch’s fame,
More fierce than we, their worth perhaps the same.
Still proud of their exploits in times of yore,
Bourbons avenge whate’er the Valois bore.
With direful shock the hosts three times engage,
Thrice change the ground, yet meet with equal rage;
The French, whose fire the leader strove to rein,
With art to prowess joined, their posts maintain;
The cruel hand of death strikes either side,
And constant carnage swells the bloody tide.
By the sword’s edge, or by a leaden death,
Chiefs, soldiers, officers, resign their breath;
Swept by one common fate, confusedly die,
And in promiscuous heaps expiring lie.
Their parting groans now pierce the wounded air,
And heaven’s vengeance they implore by prayer.
Gramont for valor and for worth renowned,
Covered with wounds lies prostrate on the ground:
Blest, had he known ere sunk in endless night,
That Louis was victorious in the fight.
What now avail his titles of command,*
The warrior’s truncheon which once graced his hand,
Honors on which the great in vain presume,
With them forgotten in the silent tomb?
Craon,* you fall, may heaven grown less secure,
Make your brave brother’s fate its chiefest care.
Say! much-loved Longaunay, what art can save
Such worth as thine from an untimely grave?
Those sons of Mars, who at their chief’s command
Darted like lightning on the hostile band,
Stopped in their course impetuous, breathless fall,
Their speed overtaken by the murderous ball;
As birds when shot, in many an airy round,
Descend and palpitate upon the ground.
D’Avray is by a hostile sabre slain,
Daubeterre beholds upon the ensanguined plain
Close by his side his dauntless chiefs expire,
Victims to the hostile sword or fire;
Warriors whom Chabrillant, with Brancus leads,
How many English slain appease your shades?
Mars, sanguinary god, our thanks we pay,
That Colbert’s noble race escaped that day;
Even war’s fierce god in virtue takes delight,
Since Guerchy escapes uninjured from the fight;
But thou, brave Dache, what shall be thy fate?
’Tis heaven’s to shorten, or protract our date.
Hapless Lutteaux, with wounds all covered o’er,
Striving to cure thee adds but tortures more;
You die in torments, while with ceaseless prayer,
We importune the gods your life to spare.
How many virtues does the tomb devour!
How brilliant youth is nipped, e’en in its flower!
What tears our bloody laurels should bedew
Conquests so dearly bought, how should we rue?
Those valiant leaders perish in the field,
Our happy lives each day new pleasures yield;
Voluptuous ease and luxury unite
To glut our souls with every soft delight.
This bliss our sovereign purchased at the head
Of armed hosts, for this our warriors bled;
Upon their tombs let’s strew each fragrant flower,
Let’s save their names from black oblivion’s power.
You who the thunder rolled, who felt its rage,
Thrice-honored chief, live in our grateful page.
Is there a man with heart unfeeling cursed,
Sparing to praise, and prone to think the worst,
Who led by sordid jealousy astray,
Can envy them the tribute which I pay?
If there is one whose breast ne’er learned to glow
At public good, or feel for public woe,
Who hears this praise with a neglectful ear,
Ungrateful men, for Louis learn to fear;
The fiery torrent spreading as it goes,
Fed with new fuel, still more furious grows;
Not winter inundations, swelled with rain,
Not tides impetuous of the roaring main,
Are half so rapid in their headlong course,
Or rush precipitate with such a force,
As the battalion which in close array,
Against our adverse legions took its way;
They marched with sabres brandished o’er their head,
And cut a passage through the heaps of dead;
The god of battle for their side declared,
Our monarch saw the danger and repaired.
His son, his only hope—loved prince, forbear,
Where do you haste? is life not worth your care?
The dauphin’s danger only can inspire
Louis with dread, the son fears for the sire;
For both our warriors fear, that fear alone
Touches their hearts, all other dreads unknown.
Guards of the king, protectors brave of France,
Nation of heroes who in crowds advance,
Haste to the fight; ’tis yours to fix our fate,
Save Europe, save the king, the prince, the state.
March, household troops, vanquish without delay,
Your chiefs to certain conquest lead the way.
You hardy veterans, whose experienced hands
Launch distant death upon the hostile bands;
Advance, you chosen troops, our army’s boast,
With balls of fire annoy the adverse host;
Squadrons of Louis, crush those haughty foes,
Courage like yours they’re worthy to oppose.
Richelieu, who flies where’er the hosts engage,
Valiant with knowledge, and with ardor sage,
Favorite of Love, by Mars to combat taught,
By wisdom’s goddess to express each thought;
He calls your bands; his soul discerning knows
From whence your enemies’ success arose;
Depending on your valor Richelieu flies,
And shows where you may win the victor’s prize.
La Mark, la Vauguion, chiefs renowned in fight,
Valiant Choiseul endowed with matchless might,
A turf intrenchment’s weak defence oppose
Against the fury of their warlike foes;
Yet thus they stem the hostile torrent’s force,
And stay an army in its headlong course.
D’Argenson, whom his father’s presence fires,
Whose bosom ardent zeal for France inspires,
Struck with the danger of the best of kings,
Excited by the blood from whence he springs,
Attacked three times that formidable band,
Which like a fiery rampart seemed to stand;
Stopped, he undaunted to the charge returns,
And with redoubled rage his bosom burns.
Thus battering rams with strokes redoubled plied
A town, whose ramparts shook on every side.
That brilliant regiment, well known to fame,
With which famed Catinat the foe o’ercame,
Came, saw, and fought; the glory they had gained,
More glory still acquiring, they maintained.
Young Castilmoron, glorious was thy part,
In tender years you showed a manly heart;
Your feeble arm from the stern English bore
The bloody standard which they took before.
But Chevrier falls a victim to their ire,
And Love, with sighs, sees Monace expire.
Ye English, twice Du Guesclin feels your rage;
Shrink at that name, to you of dire presage.
What brilliant hero, ’midst the horrid fray,
Falls, and then rising, cuts himself a way?
Biron, thy ancestors on Ivry’s plain
Thus fought great Henry’s empire to maintain.
Such Grillon was, in worth and rank supreme,
Amongst the valiant a distinguished name;
Such were Daumonts and Créquis, chiefs renowned;
The Montmorencys still with conquest crowned,
Heroes who brightly shone in former days,
The sons now emulate their fathers’ praise.
Such was Turenne, who in the field of fame
Was taught by arms to win a deathless name,
Under another chief of Saxon birth,
Whose conquering arm with terror shook the earth,
When in another Louis’s glorious days,
Justice and Mars at once conspired to raise
Gallia to grandeur never known before,
And make the Austrian eagle cease to soar.
Can polished courtiers, used to soft delight,
Thus rush like lions furious to the fight?
How grace and valor happily combine!
How Bouflers, Meuze, d’Ayen and Duras shine!
At Louis’s voice intrepid troops advance;
Led by their king, how great the sons of France!
They’ll surely conquer, headed by their sire,
No headlong instinct does his soul inspire;
Free from all passion, he, with mind serene,
Can o’er himself and over fortune reign;
His vigilance can suffer no surprise,
No error cast a mist before his eyes;
He marches like the cloud-compelling sire,
Hurling at Titans heaven’s vindictive fire,
Whose boisterous rage he guided by a nod,
And in the storm, with brow unruffled trod.
He marches thus; beneath his hosts the ground
Groans, and the noise is echoed all around;
The ocean roars; the Scheldt its fountain’s head
Astonished seeks; with darkness heaven’s o’erspread.
Beneath a cloud, which with a hideous roar
From northern caves the winds impetuous bore,
The Valois’ conquerors enraged descend:
“On you, great duke,”* they cried, “we all depend;
Rally your hardy legions to the fight.
Dutchmen, defend your barriers and your right.
Since peace, you English, fills you with alarms,
Against a king who loves it, turn your arms;
Will you his valor as his friendship fear?”
In vain they urge, for Louis soon draws near.
Their genius fails, the English lose the field,
Fierceness* to valor is constrained to yield.
The valiant Clare, who heads Hibernia’s powers,
At once defends his country’s cause and ours.
Happy Helvetians, faithful race, and sage,
With France united during many an age,
Drawn up in close compacted, firm array,
You follow where fierce Neustrians† lead the way.
That Dane, that hero of immortal fame,
Who from the frozen north to Gallia came,
Beholds our nation with astonished eyes,
When suddenly he hears a thousand cries,
“Or die, or to our force superior yield,
Louis at length has won the bloody field.”
Go, brave d’Estrées,‡ the mighty work complete;
Go, chain the foes who have escaped from fate.
Let them implore his aid whom they defied,
To yield to him will scarce abate their pride.*
Swift after them these rapid warriors ride,
Who like the dragon, formerly their guide,
Are prompt to fight on foot, or urge the steed
Against the foe, and noted for their speed.
Thus in Numidia’s plains, with rapid race,
Intrepid bands of hunters urge the chase;
Across the field the foaming coursers bound,
They climb the hills, the forests they surround;
The snares are spread, the hunters watch with care,
And balls and pointed javelins pierce the air;
With wounds the bloody leopards covered o’er,
Make the wide forests echo with their roar,
Then to some shady wood’s recess repair,
To hide their rage, and howl in secret there.
Enough our foes as well as friends have bled,
Too long you walk on mountains of the dead.
Noailles,† retire with your triumphant bands,
Mars overjoyed sees their victorious hands;
Draw to our camp those tubes for ruin framed,
Whose thunder at our heads so long was aimed.
Come, turn ’gainst the foe their hostile balls,
And with them batter Tournay’s lofty walls,
Tournay,‡ the Dutchman’s barrier and retreat,
Which was of Gallic monarchs once the seat.
Tournay surrenders, terrors Ghent* invade.
Disturbed and restless the first Charles’s† shade
With dismal cries makes from the town retreat,
Where he was born to be by conquest great.
He flies, but what beholds the frighted ghosts?
Those spacious plains all covered by our hosts;
Routed and broke he sees the English bands,
Leaving their standards in our soldiers’ hands;
The Dutch in vain retiring from the stroke,
Whilst on the ground Ghent’s ruined ramparts smoke,
The place that gave the first‡ of Cæsars birth,
By Louis’s car triumphant crushed to earth.
Thrice happy France, ’tis not your only boast,
That to sure conquest Louis led your host;
That bearing death and terror through the field,
He could with brow serene his thunder wield;
His greatest triumph is, that, mild as brave,
He wept the slaughtered foe he could not save;
That victor, modest, with heroic mind,
Lavish in others’ praise, he praise declined;
And that he strove, at once humane and brave,
To snatch the wounded warrior from the grave.
Those mangled captives, by our soldiers borne,
From hungry death’s devouring jaws scarce torn,
The fury of the battle over, find
In the mild victors, benefactors kind.
Oh, real greatness! Conquest ever blest!
Can any foe have such a ruthless breast,
Our monarch’s royal virtues not to own,
And wish to be the subject of his throne?
The empire soon with peace his arms shall bless,
Germans and English both his worth confess.
Bavaria wondering his exploits surveyed,
And grieved at having lost his powerful aid.
Naples is safe, and Turin in alarms,
The kings, his allies, triumph by his arms;
To Seine from Elbro ’tis by all confessed,
The first of heroes is of kings the best.
Kind heaven, our monarch with that title grace,
Dear to himself and to the human race,
That prize of virtue, highest pitch of fame,
The peacemaker’s august and holy name;
And may a life, on which our lives depend,
Be blessed with ease, and to late time extend.
You warriors brave, who emulate your king,
The hero to his grateful people bring;
Palms in their hands, your fellow-subjects burn
For your long wished-for prosperous return;
Your wives and children, with your past distress
And danger terrified, around you press.
They haste with ardor to your loved embrace,
With tears of joy to bathe each manly face.
Your wished return no longer then delay,
Kind love prepares the prize of worth to pay.

[* ] The count de Saxe, marshal of France, being dangerously ill during the battle, was carried through the ranks in a litter, as his weakness, and the pains he felt, rendered him unable to ride. When the king embraced him after the victory, he expressed the same sentiments that are ascribed to him here.

[† ] The duke of Harcourt had invested Tournay.

[‡ ] A marshal of France.

[§ ] Master of the artillery.

[* ] The duke of Penthièvre, who had signalized himself at the battle of Dettingen.

[† ] Monsieur de Danoy was taken by his nurse out of a heap of dead and dying men at the battle of Malplaquet, two days after it was fought: this is a certain fact. The same woman came with a passport, accompanied by a sergeant of the king’s regiment, in which he was then an officer.

[‡ ] The lieutenant-generals in their several departments.

[* ] He was upon the point of being created a marshal of France.

[* ] Nineteen officers belonging to the regiment of Hainault, were either killed or wounded. The prince de Beauveau, brother to Craon, afterwards served in Italy.

[* ] The duke of Cumberland.

[* ] This reproach of ferocity is levelled at the soldiers alone, not at the officers, who are as generous as ours. I have been informed by letter, that when the English battalion filed off from Fontenoy, many of the soldiers belonging to that body cried out, no quarter.

[† ] The Norman regiment, which charged the English battalion a second time, at the same time that the household troops, the gendarmes, the carbineers, etc., poured down upon it.

[‡ ] The count d’Estrées at the head of his division, and M. de Brionne at the head of his regiment, had forced the English grenadiers sword in hand.

[* ] Since the reign of St. Louis, no king of France had in person defeated the English in a pitched battle.

[† ] The count de Noailles attacked the battalion of English infantry with a brigade of horse, which afterwards took their artillery.

[‡ ] Tournay was the principal city belonging to the French under the first race of their kings. The tomb of Childeric was found there.

[* ] The city of Ghent was surrendered to his majesty on July 11th, after M. de Chaila, at the head of the brigades of Crillon and Normandy, the regiment of Graffin, etc., had defeated a body of English.

[† ] Charles the fifth was born at Tournay in the year 1500, on the 25th of February. Philip, archduke of Austria, was his father, and Joan of Castile, heiress to the crown of Spain, his mother.

[‡ ] Of the modern Cæsars, i.e., the emperors of Germany.