The reference to these giants of the past leads Byron naturally to a glorification of such liberators as Kosciusko, Washington, and Bolivar, and to a joyful heralding of revolutions in Chili, Spain, and Greece: “One common cause makes myriads of one breast, Slaves of the east, or helots of the west; On Andes’ and on Athos’ peaks unfurl’d, The self-same standard streams o’er either world.” Under the influence of this enthusiasm he prophecies a liberal outburst which will end in the regeneration of Europe. Contrasted with the optimism of this aspiring idealism is Byron’s gloom over the deeds of the Congress of Verona. The measures advocated by this gathering, as we have seen, were reactionary and autocratic; and Byron’s description of it, tinged with liberal sentiment, is vigorously satirical. In the conference headed by Metternich, “Power’s foremost parasite,” he can see nothing but a body of tyrants, “With ponderous malice swaying to and fro, And crushing nations with a stupid blow.” Many of the allusions in Byron’s sketches of the members recall the language used by Moore in his _Fables for the Holy Alliance_. Moore’s views of the situation in Europe agreed substantially with those of Byron. Byron’s reference to the “coxcomb czar,” “The autocrat of waltzes and of war,” recalls Moore’s mention of that sovereign in _Fable I_: “So, on he capered, fearless quite, Thinking himself extremely clever, And waltzed away with all his might, As if the Frost would last forever.” Byron accuses Louis XVIII, who was not present at the Congress, of being a gourmand and a hedonist, “A mild Epicurean, form’d at best To be a kind host and as good a guest.” The same idea is conveyed in Moore’s description of that king as, “Sighing out a faint adieu To truffles, salmis, toasted cheese.” Especially painful to Byron was the report that Marie Louise (1791–1849), Napoleon’s widow, who had been secretly married to her chamberlain, Adam de Neipperg, had attended the Congress, and had become reconciled to her first husband’s captors. One section of the satire paints a picture of her leaning on the arm of the Duke of Wellington, “yet red from Waterloo,” before her husband’s ashes have had time to chill. The most bitter, and, at the same time, the most just satire in the poem is directed at the English landed gentry: “The last to bid the cry of warfare cease, The first to make a malady of peace.” The rise in prices due to the long-continued war had fattened the purses of the farmers and land-holders in England, and led them to wish secretly for the continuance of the struggle. Byron attacks severely their grudging assent to proposals of peace, and, in a succession of rhymes on the word “rent,” points out the selfishness of their position. The diatribe contains some of Byron’s most passionate lines: