LXXI.
And 'twas as wild and still within the square,
This square of luxury! The morn arose;
An iron harvest bristled through the air,
Bayonet and pike in countless, close-lock'd rows.
Silent as death the crowd,—the grim repose
Before the earthquake;—None from roof or wall
Might look; no hand the casement might unclose.
And in their centre, frowning o'er them all,
Their idol—the sole god before whose name they fall:
LXXII.
The Guillotine!—when Hell prepared the feast,
Where guilty France was drunk, but not with wine;
Till madness sat upon her vision'd breast,—
This was the press that crush'd her bloody vine.
To this grim altar came the shuddering line,
Whose worship was,—beneath its knife to lie;
The haggard traitors to the throne and shrine,
By traitors crush'd, that in their turn must die;
Till massacre engulph'd the wreck of Liberty.
LXXIII.
The Guillotine.—It stood in that pale day
Like a huge spectre, just from earth upsprung,
To summon to the tomb the fierce array
That round its feet in desperate homage clung.
But on the wind a sudden trumpet rung.
All eyes were turn'd, and far as eye could stray,
Was caught a light, from moving helmets flung,
A banner tossing in the tempest's sway,
A wain, that through the throng slow toil'd its weary way.
LXXIV.
He comes—the monarch on the scaffold stands;
The headsmen grasp him!—Of the thousands there,
That hear his voice, that see his fetter'd hands,
Not one has given a blessing or a tear;
But that old priest who answers him in prayer.
He speaks; his dying thoughts to France are given,
His voice is drown'd; for murder has no ear.
The patient victim to the axe is driven.
Then cried the blood, whose cry is heard from Earth to Heaven!
LXXV.
The grave must tell, when it gives up its dead,
Their after hours who o'er that blood blasphemed;
What myriads perish'd on a bloody bed,
By the pursuing hoof and sabre seam'd;
What haughty heads upon the scaffold stream'd,
What eyes rain'd anguish in the den and chain,
When on their dying hour this moment gleam'd;
What wretches felt it maddening all their pain,
From Moscow funeral fires to Belgium's gory plain.
LXXVI.
France was anathema.—Her cup before
Was full, but this o'ertopp'd its burning brim.
And plagues like serpent-teeth her entrails tore;
Crime rush'd to ravage through a land of crime!
In the sack'd sepulchre caroused the mime;
On God's high altar sat Idolatry;
Before the harlot knelt the nation's prime,
And sons dragg'd fathers, fathers sons to die;
'Till Judgment girt the bow on its eternal thigh.
LXXVII.
This was our nature freed from God and king!
This was Rebellion's consummated dream!
Evil unchain'd,—all tortured, torturing;
The light of life, a wildering phantom-gleam,
A vapour of the hot and livid stream
Pour'd from the gory fount of Regicide;
The strife of madness,—fiery hearts, that teem
With shapes of guilt that but that den could hide;
Gnashings, and taunts, and groans, ascending wild and wide.
LXXVIII.
And by that place of torment England sate
Like a bright spirit with unsleeping eyes,
Commission'd to keep watch at Hell's dark gate;
Hearing within its voice of agonies,
Seeing its smokes of restless torture rise,
Itself unstain'd; and on that fearful guard,
Still holding high communion with the skies;
Still on its brow the helmet-diadem starr'd,
The splendid plume still pure, the angel cheek unmarr'd.
LXXIX.
France was in dust—a dying funeral pyre;
But from its embers sprang a sudden throne,
That round the kingdoms shot resistless fire.
In its pavilion sate a fearful one,
Alone in power, in gloomy guilt alone;
Stern, subtle, selfish;—cruelty his sword,
Apostacy upon his brow the crown,
He sat the homicidal empire's lord;
Heaven's instrument of woe, man's fear, ador'd, abhorr'd.
LXXX.
His glance look'd o'er the nations as a field
For slaughter,—and his trumpet rang their knell;
For they were stain'd, and Faith's high temper'd shield
Sank from their grasp before the infidel.
Then did his heart with impious boastings swell;
Salmoneus! 'tis thy tale of mockery.
His meanest thought was might and miracle,
His idlest word an omen from on high,
And France, a ready slave, re-echoed all the lie.
And 'twas as wild and still within the square,
This square of luxury! The morn arose;
An iron harvest bristled through the air,
Bayonet and pike in countless, close-lock'd rows.
Silent as death the crowd,—the grim repose
Before the earthquake;—None from roof or wall
Might look; no hand the casement might unclose.
And in their centre, frowning o'er them all,
Their idol—the sole god before whose name they fall:
LXXII.
The Guillotine!—when Hell prepared the feast,
Where guilty France was drunk, but not with wine;
Till madness sat upon her vision'd breast,—
This was the press that crush'd her bloody vine.
To this grim altar came the shuddering line,
Whose worship was,—beneath its knife to lie;
The haggard traitors to the throne and shrine,
By traitors crush'd, that in their turn must die;
Till massacre engulph'd the wreck of Liberty.
LXXIII.
The Guillotine.—It stood in that pale day
Like a huge spectre, just from earth upsprung,
To summon to the tomb the fierce array
That round its feet in desperate homage clung.
But on the wind a sudden trumpet rung.
All eyes were turn'd, and far as eye could stray,
Was caught a light, from moving helmets flung,
A banner tossing in the tempest's sway,
A wain, that through the throng slow toil'd its weary way.
LXXIV.
He comes—the monarch on the scaffold stands;
The headsmen grasp him!—Of the thousands there,
That hear his voice, that see his fetter'd hands,
Not one has given a blessing or a tear;
But that old priest who answers him in prayer.
He speaks; his dying thoughts to France are given,
His voice is drown'd; for murder has no ear.
The patient victim to the axe is driven.
Then cried the blood, whose cry is heard from Earth to Heaven!
LXXV.
The grave must tell, when it gives up its dead,
Their after hours who o'er that blood blasphemed;
What myriads perish'd on a bloody bed,
By the pursuing hoof and sabre seam'd;
What haughty heads upon the scaffold stream'd,
What eyes rain'd anguish in the den and chain,
When on their dying hour this moment gleam'd;
What wretches felt it maddening all their pain,
From Moscow funeral fires to Belgium's gory plain.
LXXVI.
France was anathema.—Her cup before
Was full, but this o'ertopp'd its burning brim.
And plagues like serpent-teeth her entrails tore;
Crime rush'd to ravage through a land of crime!
In the sack'd sepulchre caroused the mime;
On God's high altar sat Idolatry;
Before the harlot knelt the nation's prime,
And sons dragg'd fathers, fathers sons to die;
'Till Judgment girt the bow on its eternal thigh.
LXXVII.
This was our nature freed from God and king!
This was Rebellion's consummated dream!
Evil unchain'd,—all tortured, torturing;
The light of life, a wildering phantom-gleam,
A vapour of the hot and livid stream
Pour'd from the gory fount of Regicide;
The strife of madness,—fiery hearts, that teem
With shapes of guilt that but that den could hide;
Gnashings, and taunts, and groans, ascending wild and wide.
LXXVIII.
And by that place of torment England sate
Like a bright spirit with unsleeping eyes,
Commission'd to keep watch at Hell's dark gate;
Hearing within its voice of agonies,
Seeing its smokes of restless torture rise,
Itself unstain'd; and on that fearful guard,
Still holding high communion with the skies;
Still on its brow the helmet-diadem starr'd,
The splendid plume still pure, the angel cheek unmarr'd.
LXXIX.
France was in dust—a dying funeral pyre;
But from its embers sprang a sudden throne,
That round the kingdoms shot resistless fire.
In its pavilion sate a fearful one,
Alone in power, in gloomy guilt alone;
Stern, subtle, selfish;—cruelty his sword,
Apostacy upon his brow the crown,
He sat the homicidal empire's lord;
Heaven's instrument of woe, man's fear, ador'd, abhorr'd.
LXXX.
His glance look'd o'er the nations as a field
For slaughter,—and his trumpet rang their knell;
For they were stain'd, and Faith's high temper'd shield
Sank from their grasp before the infidel.
Then did his heart with impious boastings swell;
Salmoneus! 'tis thy tale of mockery.
His meanest thought was might and miracle,
His idlest word an omen from on high,
And France, a ready slave, re-echoed all the lie.