The tyrants threaten us, as when they turn'd
The cannon's mouth on Brissot.
Vivier harangues the Jacobins-the club
Espouse the cause of Robespierre.
Enter another MESSENGER.
All's lost the tyrant triumphs. Henriot leads
The soldiers to his aid. Already I hear
The rattling cannon destined to surround
Why, we will die like men then;
The representatives of France dare death,
When duty steels their bosoms.
TALLIEN (addressing the galleries).
Citizens!
France is insulted in her delegates-
The majesty of the republic is insulted-
Tyrants are up in arms. An armed force
Threats the Convention. The Convention swears
To die, or save the country!
To principles, not persons, spurn the idol
They worshipp'd once. Yes, Robespierre shall fall
As Capet fell! Oh! never let us deem
That France shall crouch beneath a tyrant's throne.
That the almighty people who have broke
On their oppressors' heads the oppressive chain,
Will court again their fetters! easier were it
To hurl the cloud-capt mountain from its base,
Than force the bonds of slavery upon men
Determined to be free!
Enter LEGENDRE, a pistol in one hand, keys in the
LEGENDRE (flinging down the keys).
So let the mutinous Jacobins meet now
In the open air.
[Loud applauses
A factious turbulent party
Lording it o'er the state since Danton died,
And with him the Cordeliers.-A hireling band
Of loud-tongued orators controll'd the club,
And bade them bow the knee to Robespierre.
Vivier has 'scaped me. Curse his coward heart-
This fate-fraught tube of Justice in my hand,
I rush'd into the hall. He mark'd mine eye
That beam'd its patriot anger, and flash'd full
With death-denouncing meaning. 'Mid the throng
[Violent applauses from the galleries. He mingled. I pursued but staid my hand,
CITIZEN (from above).
Lest haply I might shed the innocent blood.
To die, or save the country. Follow me.
[All the men quit the galleries. They took from me my ticket of admission
BOURDON L'OISE.
I have clear'd the Commune.
[Applauses.
Through the throng I rush'd,
Brandishing my good sword to drench its blade
Deep in the tyrant's heart. The timid rebels
Gave way. I met the soldiery-I spake
Of the dictator's crimes of patriots chain'd
In dark deep dungeons by his lawless rage-
Of knaves secure beneath his fostering power.
I spake of Liberty. Their honest hearts
Caught the warm flame. The general shout burst forth,
"Live the Convention-Down with Robespierre!"
[Applauses.
[Shouts from without-Down with the Tyrant!
And wherefore fear we death?
Did Brutus fear it? or the Grecian friends
Who buried in Hipparchus' breast the sword,
And died triumphant? Cæsar should fear death:
Brutus must scorn the bugbear.
Shouts from without. Live the Convention-Down
with the Tyrants!
Hear ye this, Colleagues? hear ye this, my brethren?
And does no thrill of joy pervade your breasts?
I hear, I hear the soul-inspiring sounds,
France shall be saved! her generous sons, attached My bosom bounds to rapture. I have seen
The sons of France shake off the tyrant yoke;
I have, as much as lies in mine own arm,
Hurl'd down the usurper. - Come death when it will,
I have lived long enough.
Hark! how the noise increases! through the gloom
Of the still evening-harbinger of death,
Rings the tocsin! the dreadful generale
Thunders through Paris-
BARRERE (mounts the Tribune).
For ever hallow'd be this glorious day,
When Freedom, bursting her oppressive chain,
Tramples on the oppressor. When the tyrant,
Hurl'd from his blood-cemented throne by the arm
Of the almighty people, meets the death
He plann'd for thousands. Oh! my sickening heart
Has sunk within me, when the various woes
Of my brave country crowded o'er my brain
In ghastly numbers-when assembled hordes,
[Cry without-Down with the Tyrant! Dragg'd from their hovels by despotic power,
Enter LECOINTRE.
LECOINTRE.
So may eternal justice blast the foes
Of France! so perish all the tyrant brood,
As Robespierre has perish'd! Citizens,
Cæsar is taken.
[Loud and repeated applauses.
I marvel not, that with such fearless front,
He braved our vengeance, and with angry eye
Scowl'd round the hall defiance. He relied
On Henriot's aid-the Commune's villain friendship,
And Henriot's boughten succors. Ye have heard
How Henriot rescued him-how with open arms
The Commune welcomed in the rebel tyrant-
How Fleuriot aided, and seditious Vivier
Stirr'd up the Jacobins. All had been lost-
The representatives of France had perish'd-
Freedom had sunk beneath the tyrant arm
Of this foul parricide, but that her spirit
Inspired the men of Paris. Henriot call'd
"To arms" in vain, whilst Bourdon's patriot voice
Breathed eloquence, and o'er the Jacobins
Legendre frown'd dismay. The tyrants fled-
They reach'd the Hotel. We gather'd round-we
For vengeance! Long time, obstinate in despair,
With knives they hack'd around them. Till foreboding
The sentence of the law, the clamorous cry
Of joyful thousands hailing their destruction,
Each sought by suicide to escape the dread
Of death. Lebas succeeded. From the window
Leapt the younger Robespierre, but his fractured limb
Forbade to escape. The self-will'd dictator
Plunged often the keen knife in his dark breast,
Yet impotent to die. He lives all mangled
By his own tremulous hand! All gash'd and gored,
He lives to taste the bitterness of Death.
Even now they meet their doom. The bloody Couthon,
The fierce St-Just, even now attend their tyrant
To fall beneath the ax. I saw the torches
Flash on their visages a dreadful light-
I saw them whilst the black blood roll'd adown
Each stern face, even then with dauntless eye
Scowl round contemptuous, dying as they lived,
Fearless of fate!
[Loud and repeated applauses.
Rush'd o'er her frontiers, plunder'd her fair hamlets, And sack'd her populous towns, and drench'd with
The reeking fields of Flanders. When within,
Upon her vitals prey'd the rankling tooth
Of treason; and oppression, giant form,
Trampling on freedom, left the alternative
Of slavery, or of death. Even from that day,
When, on the guilty Capet, I pronounced
The doom of injured France, has Faction rear'd
Her hated head amongst us. Roland preach'd
Of mercy-the uxorious dotard Roland,
The woman-govern'd Roland durst aspire
To govern France; and Petion talk'd of virtue,
And Vergniaud's eloquence, like the honey'd tongue
Of some soft Syren, wooed us to destruction.
We triumph'd over these. On the same scaffold
Where the last Louis pour'd his guilty blood,
Fell Brissot's head, the womb of darksome treasons,
And Orleans, villain kinsman of the Capet,
And Hebert's atheist crew, whose maddening hand
Hurl'd down the altars of the living God,
With all the infidel's intolerance.
The last worst traitor triumph'd-triumph'd long,
Secured by matchless villany. By turns
Defending and deserting each accomplice,
As interest prompted. In the goodly soil
Of Freedom, the foul tree of treason struck
Its deep-fix'd roots, and dropt the dews of death
On all who slumber'd in its specious shade.
He wove the web of treachery. He caught
The listening crowd by his wild eloquence,
His cool ferocity, that persuaded murder,
Even whilst it spake of mercy! - Never, never
Shall this regenerated country wear
The despot yoke. Though myriads round assail,
And with worse fury urge this new crusade
Than savages have known; though the leagued
despots
Depopulate all Europe, so to pour
The accumulated mass upon our coasts,
Sublime amid the storm shall France arise,
And like the rock amid surrounding waves
Repel the rushing ocean. She shall wield
The thunderbolt of vengeance she shall blast
The despot's pride, and liberate the world!
PROSE IN RHYME: OR EPIGRAMS, MORALITIES, AND THINGS WITHOUT A NAME
Ἔρως ἄει λάληδρος ἔταιρος.
In many ways does the full heart reveal
The presence of the love it would conceal;
But in far more th' estranged heart lets know
The absence of the love, which yet it fain would show.
ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.
Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay
Beside the ruin'd tower.
The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene,
Had blended with the lights of eve;
And she was there, my hope, my joy,
My own dear Genevieve!
She leant against the armed man,
The statue of the armed knight;
She stood and listen'd to my lay,
Amid the lingering light.
Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!
She loves me best, whene'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve.
I play'd a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story-
An old rude song, that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary.
She listen'd with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
For well she knew, I could not choose
But gaze upon her face.
I told her of the Knight that wore
Upon his shield a burning brand ;
And that for ten long years he wooed
The Lady of the Land.
I told her how he pined: and ah! The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another's love, Interpreted my own.
This piece may be found, as originally published, under another title, at page 28
She listen'd with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes, and modest grace;
And she forgave me, that I gazed
Too fondly on her face.
But when I told the cruel scorn
That crazed that bold and lovely Knight,
And that he cross'd the mountain-woods,
Nor rested day nor night;
That sometimes from the savage den,
And sometimes from the darksome shade.
And sometimes starting up at once
In green and sunny glade,
There came and look'd him in the face
An angel beautiful and bright;
And that he knew it was a Fiend,
This miserable Knight!
And that, unknowing what he did,
He leap'd amid a murderous band,
And saved from outrage worse than death
The Lady of the Land!
And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees;
And how she tended him in vain-
And ever strove to expiate
The scorn that crazed his brain.
And that she nursed him in a cave; And how his madness went away, When on the yellow forest-leaves A dying man he lay.
His dying words-but when I reach'd That tenderest strain of all the ditty, My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturbed her soul with pity!
All impulses of soul and sense
Had thrill'd my guiltless Genevieve;
The music and the doleful tale,
The rich and balmy eve;
And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
An undistinguishable throng,
And gentle wishes long subdued,
Subdued and cherish'd long!
ng blush, d modest grace; at I gazed face.
el scom and lovely Knigs mountain-wood night;
e savage den. e darksome shas
up at once
y glade,
him in the face
bright; as a Fiend, ight!
She wept with pity and delight,
She blush'd with love, and virgin shame;
And like the murmur of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name.
Her bosom heaved she stept aside,
As conscious of my look she stepp'd-
Then suddenly, with timorous eye
She fled to me and wept.
She half inclosed me with her arms,
She press'd me with a meek embrace;
And bending back her head, look'd up,
And gazed upon my face.
"Twas partly Love, and partly Fear,
And partly 't was a bashful art,
That I might rather feel, than see,
The swelling of her heart.
I calm'd her fears, and she was calm, And told her love with virgin pride; And so I won my Genevieve,
My bright and beauteous Bride.
DUTY SURVIVING SELF-LOVE,
THE ONLY SURE FRIEND OF DECLINING LIFE.
UNCHANGED within to see all changed without,
Is a blank lot and hard to bear, no doubt.
Yet why at others' warnings shouldst thou fret?
Then only mightst thou feel a just regret,
Hadst thou withheld thy love or hid thy light
In selfish forethought of neglect and slight.
O wiselier then, from feeble yearnings freed,
While, and on whom, thou mayest-shine on! nor heed
Whether the object by reflected light
Return thy radiance or absorb it quite;
e worse than dad and though thou notest from thy suit recess
d sense
s Genevieve;
efal tale,
my eve;
hat kindle hope.
rong subdued, ashi'd long!
Old Friends burn dim, like lamps in noisome air, Love them for what they are: nor love them less, Because to thee they are not what they were.
A LOVELY form there sate beside my bed,
And such a feeding calm its presence shed,
A tender love so pure from earthly leaven
That I unnethe the fancy might control,
Twas my own spirit newly come from heaven
Wooing its gentle way into my soul!
But ah! the change-It had not stirr'd, and yet-
Alas! that change how fain would I forget!
That shrinking back, like one that had mistook!
That weary, wandering, disavowing Look!
Twas all another, feature, look, and frame,
And still, methought, I knew it was the same!
This riddling tale, to what does it belong? la't history? vision? or an idle song?
Or rather say at once, within what space
Of time this wild disastrous change took place?
Call it a moment's work (and such it seems),
This tale's a fragment from the life of dreams;
But say, that years matured the silent strife,
And 'tis a record from the dream of Life.
WORK WITHOUT HOPE.
LINES COMPOSED 21ST FEBRUARY, 1827.
ALL Nature seems at work. Stags leave their lair-
The bees are stirring-Birds are on the wing-
And Winter, slumbering in the open air,
Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!
And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.
Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow,
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow.
Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may,
For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!
With lips unbrighten'd, wreathless brow, I stroll:
And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?
Work: without hope draws nectar in a sieve,
And hope without an object cannot live.
YOUTH AND AGE.
VERSE, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,
Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee-
Both were mine! Life went a-maying
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
When I was young!
When I was young-Ah, woful when!
Ah for the change 'twixt now and then!
This breath ing house not built with hands,
This body that does me grievous wrong,
O'er airy cliffs and glittering sands,
How lightly then it flash'd along:-
Like those trinn skiffs, unknown of yore,
On winding lakes and rivers wide,
That ask no aid of sail or oar,
That fear no spite of wind or tide!
Nought cared this body for wind or weather,
When Youth and lived in't together
Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like,
Friendship is a sheltering tree;
O the joys, that came down shower-like,
Of Friendship, Love, a und Liberty,
Ere I was old? Ah wot ul Ere,
Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!
O Youth! for years so me my and sweet,
"Tis known, that thou and I were one,
I'll think it but a fond cont teit-
It cannot be, that thou art gone!
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd >>
And thou wert aye a masker bold!
What strange disguise hast no w put on.
To make believe that thou art gone?
I see these locks in silvery slips,
This drooping gait, this alter'd size:
But springtide blossoms on thy lips,
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes! Life is but thought: so think I will
That youth and I are house-mates still.
What outward form and feature are
He gueseth but in part;
But what within is good and fair
He seeth with the heart.
My eyes make pictures, when they are shut
I see a fountain, large and fair,
A willow and a ruin'd hut,
And thee, and me, and Mary there.
O Mary! make thy gentle lap our pillow!
LINES SUGGESTED BY THE LAST WORDS
OF BERENGARIUS.
OB. ANNO DOM. 1088.
No more 'twixt conscience staggering and the Pope,
Soon shall I now before my God appear,
By him to be acquitted, as I hope;
Bend o'er us, like a bower, my beautiful green willow! By him to be condemned, as I fear,
O ever-ever be thou blest!
For dearly, Asra! love I thee!
This brooding warmth across my breast, This depth of tranquil bliss-ah me! Fount, tree and shed are gone, I know not whither, But in one quiet room we three are still together.
The shadows dance upon the wail,
By the still dancing fire-flames, made;
And now they slumber, moveles all!
And now they melt to one deep shade!
But not from me shall this mild darkness steal thee:
I dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I feel
REFLECTIONS ON THE ABOVE.
Lynx amid moles! had I stood by thy bed,
Be of good cheer, meek soul! I would have said.
A see a hope spring from that humble fear.
All are not strong alike through storms to steer
Right onward. What though dread of threaten'd
death
And dungeon torture made thy hand and breath
Inconstant to the truth within thy heart?
That truth, from which, through fear, thou twice
didst start,
Fear haply told thee, was a learned strife,
Or not so vital as to claim thy life:
And myriads had reach'd Heaven, who never knew
Where lay the difference 'twixt the false and true!
Ye who, secure 'mid trophies not your own,
Judge him who won them when he stood alone,
And proudly talk of recreant BERENGARE-
O first the age, and then the man compare!
That age how dark! congenial minds how rare!
No host of friends with kindred zeal did burn!
No throbbing hearts awaited his return!
Prostrate alike when prince and peasant fell,
He only disenchanted from the spell,
Like the weak worm that gems the starless night,
Moved in the scanty circlet of his light:
And was it strange if he withdrew the ray
That did but guide the night-birds to their prey?
The ascending Day-star with a bolder eye
Hath lit each dew-drop on our trimmer lawn!
Yet not for this, if wise, will we decry
The spots and struggles of the timid DAWN!
Lest so we tempt th' approaching Noon to scorn
The mists and painted vapors of our MORN.
THE DEVIL'S THOUGHTS.
FROM his brimstone bed at break of day A-walking the DEVIL is gone,
To visit his little snug farm of the earth, And see how his stock went on.
Over the hill and over the dale,
And he went over the plain,
And backwards and forwards he swish'd his long tail
As a gentleman swishes his cane.
And how then was the Devil drest?
Oh! he was in his Sunday's best:
His jacket was red and his breeches were blue,
And there was a hole where the tail came through
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