It was a beautiful and silent day That overspread the countenance of earth, Then fading with unusual quietness,— A day as beautiful as e'er was given
To soothe regret, though deepening what it soothed, When by the gliding Loire I paused, and cast Upon his rich domains, vineyard and tilth, Green meadow-ground, and many-coloured woods, Again, and yet again, a farewell look;
Then from the quiet of that scene passed on, Bound to the fierce Metropolis. From his throne The King had fallen, and that invading host- Presumptuous cloud, on whose black front was written The tender mercies of the dismal wind That bore it-on the plains of Liberty Had burst innocuous. Say in bolder words, They—who had come elate as eastern hunters Banded beneath the Great Mogul, when he Erewhile went forth from Agra or Lahore, Rajahs and Omrahs in his train, intent To drive their prey enclosed within a ring Wide as a province, but, the signal given, Before the point of the life-threatening spear Narrowing itself by moments-they, rash mer,
Had seen the anticipated quarry turned Into avengers, from whose wrath they fled In terror. Disappointment and dismay Remained for all whose fancies had run wild With evil expectations; confidence
And perfect triumph for the better cause.
The State-as if to stamp the final seal On her security, and to the world
Show what she was, a high and fearless soul, Exulting in defiance, or heart-stung By sharp resentment, or belike to taunt With spiteful gratitude the baffled League, That had stirred up her slackening faculties To a new transition-when the King was crushed, Spared not the empty throne, and in proud haste Assumed the body and venerable name
Of a Republic. Lamentable crimes,
'Tis true, had gone before this hour, dire work Of massacre, in which the senseless sword Was prayed to as a judge; but these were past, Earth free from them for ever, as was thought,- Ephemeral monsters, to be seen but once!
Things that could only show themselves and die.
Cheered with this hope, to Paris I returned, And ranged, with ardour heretofore unfelt, The spacious city, and in progress passed The prison where the unhappy Monarch lay, Associate with his children and his wife In bondage; and the palace, lately stormed With roar of cannon by a furious host. I crossed the square (an empty area then!)
Of the Carrousel, where so late had lain The dead, upon the dying heaped, and gazed On this and other spots, as doth a man Upon a volume whose contents he knows Are memorable, but from him locked up, Being written in a tongue he cannot read, So that he questions the mute leaves with pain, And half upbraids their silence. But that night I felt most deeply in what world I was, What ground I trod on, and what air I breathed. High was my room and lonely, near the roof Of a large mansion or hotel, a lodge
That would have pleased me in more quiet times; Nor was it wholly without pleasure then. With unextinguished taper I kept watch, Reading at intervals; the fear gone by Pressed on me almost like a fear to come. I thought of those September massacres, Divided from me by one little month,
Saw them and touched: the rest was conjured up From tragic fictions or true history, Remembrances and dim admonishments.
The horse is taught his manage, and no star Of wildest course but treads back his own steps; For the spent hurricane the air provides
As fierce a successor; the tide retreats But to return out of its hiding-place
In the great deep; all things have second birth; The earthquake is not satisfied at once; And in this way I wrought upon myself, Until I seemed to hear a voice that cried,
To the whole city, "Sleep no more." The trance Fled with the voice to which it had given birth;
But vainly comments of a calmer mind Promised soft peace and sweet forgetfulness. The place, all hushed and silent as it was, Appeared unfit for the repose of night, Defenceless as a wood where tigers roam.
With early morning towards the Palace-walk Of Orleans eagerly I turned: as yet
The streets were still; not so those long Arcades; There, 'mid a peal of ill-matched sounds and cries, That greeted me on entering, I could hear Shrill voices from the hawkers in the throng, Bawling, "Denunciation of the Crimes Of Maximilian Robespierre;" the hand, Prompt as the voice, held forth a printed speech, The same that had been recently pronounced, When Robespierre, not ignorant for what mark Some words of indirect reproof had been Intended, rose in hardihood, and dared The man who had an ill surmise of him To bring his charge in openness; whereat, When a dead pause ensued, and no one stirred, In silence of all present, from his seat Louvet walked single through the avenue, And took his station in the Tribune, saying, "I, Robespierre, accuse thee!" Well is known The inglorious issue of that charge, and how
He, who had launched the startling thunderbolt,
The one bold man, whose voice the attack had sounded, Was left without a follower to discharge
His perilous duty, and retire lamenting That Heaven's best aid is wasted upon men Who to themselves are false.
Of which I speak, only as they were storm Or sunshine to my individual mind,
No further. Let me then relate that now- In some sort seeing with my proper eyes That Liberty, and Life, and Death, would soon To the remotest corners of the land
Lie in the arbitrement of those who ruled The capital City; what was struggled for, And by what combatants victory must be won; The indecision on their part whose aim Seemed best, and the straightforward path of those Who in attack or in defence were strong Through their impiety-my inmost soul Was agitated; yea, I could almost
Have prayed that throughout earth upon all men, By patient exercise of reason made Worthy of liberty, all spirits filled
With zeal expanding in Truth's holy light, The gift of tongues might fall, and power arrive From the four quarters of the winds to do For France, what without help she could not do, A work of honour; think not that to this I added, work of safety: from all doubt Or trepidation for the end of things Far was I, far as angels are from guilt.
Yet did I grieve, nor only grieved, but thought Of opposition and of remedies:
An insignificant stranger and obscure, And one, moreover, little graced with power Of eloquence even in my native speech, And all unfit for tumult or intrigue,
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