A Convent Legend (Poem)
The Georgetown confessions of a French revolutionary
From Tales of the Chesapeake by George Alfred Townsend comes this poem about Napoleon’s chief rival, who was banished to the States and, considering his love of hunting and fishing, could well have found his way from his home in southeastern Pennsylvania down the Eastern Shore…
The General Moreau, that pure republican,
Who won at Hohenlinden so much glory,
And by Bonaparte hated, crossed the sea to be free.
And brought to the Delaware his story.
World-renowned as he was, unto Washington he strayed.
Where Pichegru, his friend, had contended,
And to Georgetown he rode, in search of a church,
To confess what of good he offended.
The Jesuits’ nest beckoned up to the height
Where pious John Carroll had laid it,
And the General knelt at the cell but to tell
His offence; yet or ever he said it,
A voice in the speech of his Bretagny home,
From within, where the monk was to listen,
Exclaimed like a soldier: ”Ah me! mon ami,
Take my place and a sinful one christen!
“For mine was the band that brought exile to you;
Cadoudal, the Chouan, my master,
Broke my sword and my heart, and I lost when I crost,
Both honor and love to be pastor.
A knight of the king and my lady at court,
At the call of Vendée the despised,
Into Paris I stole with a few, one or two,
As assassins, to murder disguised.
”On the third of Nivose, in the narrowest street,
And never a traitor one to breathe it,
We prepared to blow up Bonaparte with a cart,
And a barrel of powder beneath it.
He came like a flash, dashing by, but behind,
Poor folks and his escort in feather,
And the child that we put, sans remorse, by the horse,
Were torn all to pieces together.“
”To the guillotine both of my comrades were sent,
But the Church, saving me for the tonsure,
Hid me off in the wilds, and my dame, to her shame,
To be Père sold me out from a Monsieur;
And now she is clad in the silk of the court,
And I in the wool of confessor,—
Hate me not, ere hence you go, Jean Victor Moreau!
And with France be my fame’s intercessor!“
”Limoelan! priest! is it you that I hear
In this convent by Washington’s river?
Ah! France, how thy children are hurled round the world,
Like the arrows from destiny’s quiver!
Take shrift for thy crime! Be thou pardoned with peace,
Poor exile of Breton, my brother!“
And the cannon of Dresden Moreau gave release,
The bells of the convent the other.
Did you enjoy this poem? Get your copy of the book Tales of the Chesapeake.
