THE DEATH OF ROBESPIERRE.
SCENE I.
ROBESPIERRE'S HOUSE.
Robespierre and St. Just meeting.
St. Just.—Danton is gone!
Robespierre.—Then can I hope for all things,
Since he is dead whose shadow darken'd me;
Did the crowd cheer or hiss him?
St. Just.—Neither, sir:
Save a few voices, all look'd on in silence.
Robes.—Ha! did they so?—but when the engine rattled,
And the axe fell, didst thou perceive him shudder?
St. Just.—He turn'd his face to the descending steel,
And calmly smil'd. A low and ominous murmur
Spread through the vast assemblage—then, in peace,
They all dispers'd.
Robes.—I did not wish for this.
St. Just.—No man, since Louis Capet——
Robes.—Say no more
My worthy friend—the friend of France and freedom—
Hasten to guard our interest in yon junto
Of fools and traitors, who, like timid sheep,
Nor fight nor fly, but huddle close together,
Till the wolves come to gorge themselves among them—
And in the evening, you and all my friends
Will meet me here, deliberate, and decide
To advance, or to recede. Be still, we cannot;
And hear me, dear St. Just—A man like you,
Firm and unflinching through so many trials,
Who sooner would behold this land manured
With carcases and moistened with their blood,
Than yielding food for feudal slaves to eat,
True to your party and to me your brother—
For so I would be term'd—has the best claim
That man can have to name his own reward
When France is all our own. Bethink you then
What post of honor or of profit suits you,
And tell me early, that I may provide,
To meet your views, a part in this great drama.
St. Just.—Citizen Robespierre—my hearty thanks;
Financial Minister, by any name
Or trumpery title that may suit these times,
Is what I aim at—gratify me there
And I am yours through more blood than would serve
To float the L'Orient.1
1 A French line of battle ship. Burnt at the battle of Aboukir.
Robes.—'Tis well, St. Just,
But wherefore citizen me? I have not used
The term to you—we are not strangers here.
St. Just.—Pardon me, sir, (or Sire, even as you please)
The cant of Jacobins infects my tongue,
I had no meaning farther. One word more
Before we part—now Danton is cut off,
We may be sure that all his partisans
And personal friends are our most deadly foes,
And it were politic and kind in us
To spare their brains unnumbered schemes of vengeance
And seize at once the power to silence them.
To give them time were ruin; some there are
Whose love of gold is such that were it wet
With Danton's blood they would not less receive it.
These may be brib'd to league with us. Farewell.
Robes. (solus.) Blood on its base—upon its every step—
Yea, on its very summit—still I climb:
But thickest darkness veils my destiny,
And standing as I do on a frail crag
Whence I must make one desperate spring to power,
To safety, honor, and unbounded wealth,
Or be as Danton is, why do I pause?
Why do I gaze back on my past career,
Upon those piles of headless, reeking dead?
Those whitening sculls? those streams of guiltless blood
Still smoking to the skies?—why think I hear
The shrieks, the groans, the smothered execrations
That swell the breeze, or seem as if I shrank
Beneath the o'ergrown, yet still accumulating,
Curse of humanity that clings around me?
Is not my hate of them as fixed, intense,
And all unquenchable as theirs of me?
But they must tremble in their rage while I
Destroy and scorn them.
(reads a letter.)
"Exert your dexterity to escape a scene on which you are to appear once more ere you leave it forever. Your dictatorial chair, if attained, will be only a step to the scaffold, through a rabble who will spit on you as on Egalité. You have treasure enough. I expect you with anxiety. We will enjoy a hearty laugh at the expense of a people as credulous as greedy of novelty."
He but little knows,
Who wrote this coward warning, what I am.
I love not life so well, nor hate mankind
So slightly as to fly this country now:
No, I will ride and rule the storm I have rais'd,
Or perish in its fury.
(Madame de Cabarus enters.)
Ha! a woman!
How entered you?
Lady.—Your civic guard were sleeping;
I pass'd unquestioned, and my fearful strait
Compels appeal to thee, great Robespierre!
Deny me not, and Heaven will grant thy prayer
In that dread hour when every mortal needs it.
Repulse me not, and heaven thus at the last
Will not repulse thee from eternal life.
I am the daughter of the unhappy Laurens,
Who hath but one day more to live on earth.
Oh, for the sake of all thou holdest dear,
(kneeling before him.)
Spare to his only child the misery
Of seeing perish thus her much lov'd sire.
His head is white with age—let it not fall
Beneath yon dreadful axe. Through sixty years
A peaceful and reproachless life he led.
Thy word can save him. Speak, oh speak that word,
For our Redeemer's sake redeem his life,
And child and father both shall bless thee ever.
Robes. (aside.) I know her now—the chosen of Tallien
How beautiful in tears! A noble dame
And worthy to be mine. 'Twould sting his heart
To lose his mistress ere I take his head;
If I would bribe her passions or her fears,
As well I trust I can, I must be speedy.
Those drunken guards—should any see her here,
Then what a tale to spread on Robespierre,
The chaste, the incorruptible, forsooth——
(coldly approaching her.)
Lady, I may not save your father's life—
Duty forbids—he holds back evidence
Which would convict Tallien; nay, do not kneel,
I cannot interfere.
Daughter.—Oh, say not so.
He is too peaceful for intrigues or plotters—
Too old, too helpless for their trust or aid.
Oh, for the filial love thou bearest thy sire,
Thy reverence for his years——
Robes.—If he were living
And spoke in thy behalf, it were in vain.
Daughter.—For the dear mother's sake who gave thee birth
And suffer'd agony that thou might'st live——
Robes.—Not if her voice could hail me from the tomb,
And plead in thy own words to save his life.
Daughter.—If thou hast hope or mercy——
Robes.—I have neither.
Rise and depart while you are safe—yet stay,
One path to his redemption still is open—
It leads to yonder chamber—Ha! I see
Thou understandest me.
Daughter.—I trust I do not.
I hope that Heaven beholds not—Earth contains not
A being capable of such an offer.
Robes.—And dare you scorn me, knowing who I am?
Bethink you where you stand—your sire—and lover—
And hear my offer. Life and wealth for them,
Jewels and splendor and supremacy
Shall wait on thee—no dame shall breathe in France
But bends the knee before thee.
Daughter.—Let him die.
Better he perish now than live to curse
His daughter for dishonor. Fare you well.
There is a time for all things, and the hour
May come when thou wilt think of this again.
Robes. (laughing.) Ha! ha! Wouldst thou depart to spread this tale?
Never, save to such ears as will not trust thee!
Choose on the spot between thy father's death,
Thy lover's and thine own, or my proposal.
Daughter.—My choice is made, let me rejoin my sire.
Robes.—I'll furnish thee a passport—guards awake!
(seizing her arm.)
Without there! murder! treason! guards come hither!
(Jacobins rush in and seize her.)
A watchful crew ye are, to leave me thus
To perish like Marât by the assassins;
See that you guard her well, and keep this weapon
Which, but I wrench'd it from her, would have slain me.
Daughter.—And thus my father dies and one as dear.
'Tis joy to suffer with them, though I perish.
I feel assured thou canst not triumph long—
And I adjure thee by the Heaven thou hast scorn'd,
Whose lingering fires are not yet launch'd against thee,
And by the Earth thou cumberest, which hath not
Yet opened to entomb thee living, come,
Meet me, and mine, and thy ten thousand victims,
Before God's judgment seat, ere two days pass.
(the guards take her out.)
Robes.—She must have thought in sooth I was a Christian.
SCENE II.
TALLIEN'S HOUSE.
Tallien with a letter in his hand.
In prison!—In his power!—to die to-morrow!
My body trembles and my senses reel.
This is a just and fearful retribution—
Would it were on my head alone! Oh Heaven,
Spare but this angel woman and her father,
And let me die—or might my life be pardon'd,
The criminal excess to which these times
Have hurried my rash hand and wilful heart,
I will atone to outrag'd human nature,
To her and to my country. Wretched France!
Once the fair home of music and of mirth,
So torn, so harrassed by these factions now,
That even the wise and good of other lands
Cannot believe a patriot breathes in this!
And she complains that I am grown a craven!
My acts of late may justify the thought,
But let to-morrow show how much I fear him.
(A Servant enters.)
Servant.—The Minister of Police——
Tallien.—Attend him hither—
Fouché—perhaps to sound me; let him try—
I yet may baffle him, and one more fatal——
(Fouché enters.)
Fouché.—So you are in the scales with Robespierre,
And which do you expect will kick the beam?
Tallien.—Why should you think that I will stake my power,
Friends, interest, and life, in useless efforts
To thwart the destined ruler of the land?
Fouché.—Yourself have told me so. I did but mean
That he had risk'd his power and party strength
Against your life. You mean to strike at his.
Your faltering voice and startled looks betray
The secret of your heart, though sooth to say,
I knew it all before.
Tallien.—You see too far,
And are for once wise over much, Monsieur;
I never sought to oppose your great colleague,
But would conciliate him if I might.
Fouché. (sternly.) And do you hope to throw dust in my eyes?
What means this note from Madame de Cabarus
Now in your bosom—sent to you this morning—
And this your answer? (producing a billet.) Have I fathom'd you?
The mystic writing on the palace wall
Scar'd not Belshazzar more than this does you.
(Tallien goes to the door.)
Nay, never call your men or make those signals,
I have foreseen the worst that you can do.
Tallien.—Chief of Police, while you are in this house
Your life is in my hands—when you are gone,
Mine is in yours. Now tell me why you came?
Fouché.—To show you that I know of your designs.
Tallien.—And is that all?
Fouché.—Not quite. To offer service—
A politician should not start as you do
At every word.
Tallien.—Ah—can I—dare I trust you?
Fouché.—I do not ask created man to trust
Honor or oath of him whose name is Fouché.
I know mankind, and study my own interest—
Interest, Tallien—that mainstring of all motion—
Chain of all strength—pole star of all attraction
For human hearts to turn to. Let me see
My interest in supporting you, and I
Can aid and guard you through the coming peril.
Tallien.—Name your terms.
Fouché.—My present post and what
Beside is mentioned in this schedule.
(giving a paper.)
Tallien.—Your price is high, but I am pledged to pay it.
(giving his hand.)
Fouché.—Thou knowest I never was over scrupulous,
But he whom I was link'd with, Robespierre,
Can stand no longer. Earth is weary of him.
The small majority in the Convention
He calculates upon to be his plea
For wreaking summary vengeance on the heads
Of all who, like yourself, are not prepared
To grant him supreme power or dip their hands
In blood for any, every, or no profit.
A ravenous beast were better in the chair.
Henriot and the civic force here, stand
Prompt to obey him. Were we only sure
To raise the citizens, these dogs were nothing—
But, sink or swim, to-morrow is the day
Must ruin him or us. Do you impeach him,
And paint his crimes exactly as they are;
Have a decree of arrest, and I and mine
Will see he quits not the Convention Hall
But in the custody of friends of ours.
'Tis true I bargain'd to assist the fiend
The better to deceive him. Mark, Tallien,
A presage of his fall—not only I
Abandon him, but I can bring Barrère
And all his tribe to give their votes against him.
Give me carte blanche to pay them for their voices.
Tallien.—But think you I can move them to arrest him?
Fouché.—That is a chance unknown even to myself,
There are so many waiters on the wind,
Straws to be blown wherever it may list
That surety of success we cannot have,
But certain ruin if we pass to-morrow.
Tallien.—Is't true she aim'd a weapon at his life?
Fouché.—A lie of his invention. I have seen
The weapon he pretended to have snatch'd
From her fair hands, and know it for his own.
Though I seem foul compar'd to better men,
I claim to appear an angel match'd with him.
SCENE III.
ROBESPIERRE'S HOUSE.
Robespierre, Fouché, Henriot and others.
Henriot.—All things are ready now, six thousand men
And twenty cannon wait your word to-morrow.
Robes.—Henriot, I have a word to say to thee:
Thou hast one vice that suits not with a leader,
If that thou hopest to thrive in our attempt,
Taste not of wine till victory is ours.
Henriot.—I thank your caution.
Fouché.—I have seen Tallien
And offered peace between you; he knew not
That Laurens' daughter had assail'd your life,
Or he had mentioned it. Nor did he dream
Of what will peal upon his ears to-morrow.
Robes.—Then, friends, farewell until to-morrow dawns.
Fouché.—And ere its night sets in we hail thee Ruler,
Dictator of the land.
Robes.—If such your will—
Without you I am nothing—fare you well.
(they leave him.)
(looking up to the stars.)—Unchang'd, unfading, never-dying lights—
Gods, or coeval with them! If there be
In your bright aspects aught of influence
Which men have made a science here on earth,
Shed it benignly on my fortunes now!
Spirit of Terror! Rouse thee at my bidding—
Shake thy red wings o'er Liberty's Golgotha—
Palsy men's energies and stun their souls,
That no more foes may cross my path to-morrow
Than I and mine can drown in their own blood;
Or, let them rise by thousands, so my slaves
Fight but as heartily for gold and wine
As they have done ere now. When I shall lead them,
Then 'mid the artillery's roar and bayonet's flash
I write my title to be Lord of France
In flame and carnage, o'er this den of thieves.
Beneath th' exterior, frozen, stern demeanor,
How my veins throb to bursting, while I think
On the rich feast of victory and revenge
The coming day may yield me! Yes, this land
Of bigot slaves who tremble at a devil,
Or frantic atheists who with lifted hands
Will gravely VOTE their Maker from his throne,
This horde of dupes and miscreants shall feel
And own in tears, blood, crime and retribution,
The iron rule of him they trampled on—
The outrag'd, ruin'd, and despised attorney.
Though few the anxious hours that lie between
My brightest, proudest hopes, or sure destruction,
All yet is vague, uncertain, and obscure
As what may chance in ages yet to come.
How if the dungeon or the scaffold—Ha!
That shall not be—my hand shall overrule it—
Ingenious arbiter of life and death!
(looking to the charge of a small pistol.)
Be thou my bosom friend in time of need!
No—if my star is doom'd to set forever,
The cheeks of men shall pale as they behold
The lurid sky it sinks in. Should I fall
Leading my Helots on to slay each other,
Then death, all hail!—for only thou canst quench
The secret fire that rages in my breast;
If there be an hereafter, which I know not,
He who hath borne my life may dare its worst,
And if mortality's last pangs end all,
Welcome eternal sleep!—annihilation!
SCENE IV.
THE HALL OF THE NATIONAL CONVENTION.
Couthon concluding a speech from the Tribune. Tallien, Fouché, Carnôt, and others, standing near him. Robespierre, St. Just, and others, in their seats.
Tallien (to Fouché.)—Are you ready?
Fouché.—Doubt not my aid—denounce him where he stands—
And lose no time—this hour decides our fate.
Couthon (to the Convention.)—Our country is in danger—I invoke
Your aid, compatriots, to shield her now!
Fain as I am to avoid confiding power
Without control, in even patriot hands,
We cannot choose—and much as I abhor
To see blood flow, let punishment descend
On traitors' heads, for this alone can save us.
Tallien (approaching him.) Thou aged fangless tiger! not yet glutted?
Torrents of blood are shed for thee and thine—
Must thou have more? Descend—before I trample
Thee to the earth. Thou art not fit to live.
(he drags Couthon down by the hair of his head and mounts the Tribune.)
(addressing the Convention.) Yes, citizens, our country is imperiled,
And by a band of dark conspirators,
Soul-hardened miscreants, in whose grasp the ties
That bind mankind together are rent asunder
By spies—by fraud—by hope of power and spoils—
By baser fears, and by increasing terror
Of their dread engine, whose incessant strokes
And never failing stream astound mankind.
These men have pav'd the way, that open force
May crush the hopes of France, and bend our necks
Unto a despotism strange as bloody.
And who, my countrymen, hath been their leader?
Ye know him well—and every Frenchman breathing
Hath need to rue the hour which gave him birth—
A wretch accursed in heaven—abhorred on earth,
Hath dared aspire to sway most absolute
In this Republic—and the dread tribunals
Which for the land's protection were established
When pressed by foreign arms and homebred treason,
He hath converted to the deadly end
Of slaughtering all who crossed his onward path.
His black intrigues have occupied their seats
With robbers and assassins—whose foul riot,
Polluted lives, and unquenched thirst of gold,
Have beggar'd France and murdered half her sons.
Witness those long—long lists of dire proscription
Prepar'd at night for every coming day,
Even in the very chamber of the tyrant!
Witness the wanton, groundless confiscations,
Which ruin helpless men, to feed his minions!
Witness the cry of woe too great to bear,
That hath gone up to heaven from this fair land!
Yes—hear it, every man who loves his country—
France, for a ruler now, is ask'd to choose
The vampire who would drain her dearest blood:
A sordid slave, whose hideous form contains
A mind in moral darkness and fierce passions
Like nothing, save the cavern gloom of hell,
Which knows no light but its consuming fires!
I need not point to him. Your looks of terror,
Disgust and hatred turn at once upon him.
Though there be others of his name, this Hall—
This City—France—the World itself contains
Only one—Robespierre.
(the Assembly in great confusion.)
Robes. (to St. Just.) This blow is sudden.
St. Just.—Up to the Tribune—speed—your life—our power
All hang upon a moment. Art thou dumb?
Tallien (continuing.) The evil spirit who serv'd abandons him,
And I denounce him as the mortal foe
Of every man in France who would be free—
Impeach him as a traitor to the State
In league with Henriot, Couthon and St. Just.
To overawe by force and crush the Assembly!
I appeal for proof to those who plotted with him,
But now repentant have abjur'd his cause.
I move that he be instantly arrested
With Henriot and all accomplices.
Robes. (to St. Just.) See how they rise like fiends and point the hand
Of bitterest hatred at your head and mine,
Our veriest bloodhounds turn and strive to rend us.
(he rushes towards the Tribune, amid loud cries of "Down with the tyrant!")
Robes.—Hear me, ye members of the Mountain—hear me,
Cordeliers, who have prais'd and cheer'd me on—
Ye Girondists, give even your foes a hearing—
Ye members of the Plain, who moderate
The fury of contending factions—hear me
For all I have done or have designed to do,
I justify myself—and I appeal
To God—and——
(he pauses choked with rage.)
Tallien.—Danton's blood is strangling him.
Consummate hypocrite!—darest thou use
Thy Maker's name to sanctify thy crimes,
Thou lover of Religion! Saintly being!
The executioner! thou prayerless atheist!
To thy high priest. The scaffold is thy temple—
The block thy altar—murder is thy God.
And could it come to this? Oh, France! Oh, France!
Was it for this that Louis Capet died?
For this was it we swore eternal hatred
To kings and nobles—pour'd our armies forth—
Crush'd banded despots and confirmed our rights?
And have we bled, endur'd and toil'd, that now
Our triumph should be to disgrace ourselves
And bend in worship to a man whose deeds
Have written demon on his very brow?
What! style Dictator—clothe with regal honors
And more than regal power this Robespierre,
So steep'd in guilt—so bath'd in human blood!
It may not be—France is at last awake
From this long dreary dream of shame and sorrow,
And may her sons in renovated strength
Shake off the lethargy that drew it on!
Spirits of Earth's true heroes!—if ye see us
From the calm sunshine of your blest abodes,
Look with approval on me in this hour!
(turning to the statue of Brutus.)
Thee, I invoke!—Shade of the virtuous Brutus!
Like thee, I swear, should man refuse me justice
I draw this poignard for the tyrant's heart
Or for my own. Tallien disdains to live
The slave of Robespierre. I do not ask
Nor can expect him to receive the meed
Which should be his. Death cannot punish him
Whose life hath well deserv'd a thousand deaths,
But let us purge this plague-spot from among us,
And tell wide Europe by our vote this night
That Terror's reign hath ceas'd—that axe and sceptre
Are both alike disown'd, destroyed forever.
Let us impeach him, Frenchmen, with the spirit
That springs from conscious rectitude of purpose.
Patriots arise! and with uplifted hands
Attest your deep abhorrence of this man,
And your consent that he be now arrested!
(members rising in disorder.) Away, away with him—arrest him guards!
To the Conciergerie—away with him!
(President rising.) The National Convention have decreed
The arrest of Maximilien Robespierre.
Robes. (to St. Just.) The day is theirs—with wrath and with despair
My utterance is chok'd. Oh, were my breath
A pestilential gale to sting their lives!
(to the President.) Order me to be slain where now I stand,
Or grant me liberty of speech.
(President.) Thy name is Robespierre—it is enough,
And speaks for thee far more than thou wilt tell us.
Robes. (to St. Just.) Come thou with me—I see an opening yet
To victory, or a funeral pile—whose light
Shall dazzle France and terrify the world.
(Robespierre, St. Just and others taken out by the guards.2)
2 It may be well to recall to the reader's recollection, that Robespierre subsequently escaped from his guards to the Hotel de Ville. But such partisans as rallied around him speedily deserted, when a proclamation of outlawry from the Convention was issued against him, and enforced by pointing cannon against the building. After an ineffectual attempt at suicide he was conveyed in a cart to the guillotine, July 28th, 1794.
The language put into his mouth in the following pages, is of course inconsistent with historical probability, as he had wounded himself with a pistol ball in the lower part of his face.
SCENE V.
ROBESPIERRE AND ST. JUST IN A CART CONDUCTED BY GUARDS TOWARDS THE PLACE DE GRÊVE.
St. Just.—So here ends our part in a tragic farce,
Hiss'd off the stage, my friend—ha, ha!
(laughing.)
I am content—I mean I am resigned—
As well die now as later. Does your wound
Pain you severely that you look so gravely?
Cheer thee, my comrade, we shall quickly learn
The last dread secret of our frail existence,
Few moments more will cut our barks adrift
Upon an ocean, boundless and unknown,
Even to ourselves who have despatched so many
To explore for us its dark and fathomless depths.
Give me some wine. (they give him wine.) Here's to a merry voyage!
What in the fiend's name art thou musing on!
Robes.—My thoughts were with the past—the days of youth,
And peace, and innocence, and woman's love,
And ardent hope—the blossoms of a life
So baleful in its fruits. This day, the last
Of my career, is the anniversary
Of one, from which my after life may date
Its withering influence. Wouldst thou not think
That I, whom thou hast known for a few years,
Must ever have been, even from my earliest youth,
A hard and cruel man?
St. Just.—Much like myself.
I think you were no saint even when a child.
Robes.—Such is the common blunder of the world
To think me, like the demon they believe in,
From the beginning, "murderer and liar;"
So let it be—I would not change their thoughts.
But I, St. Just, strange as it seems to you,
Even I, whose name, even in this age of crime,
Must stand aloft alone a blood-red beacon
And warning to posterity, was once
Young, warm, enthusiastic, generous,
Candid, affectionate, a son and brother,
But proud and sensitive. I lov'd a maid—
Yes, if entire and all-absorbed devotion
Of life and soul and being to her, were love—
If to be willing to lay down my life,
My hopes of fame and honorable notice,
And all the world holds dear, for her dear sake,
May be call'd love, then I most truly lov'd her.
I was a thriving lawyer, and could raise
My voice without reward to shield the oppress'd,
I lov'd my kind and bore a stainless name.
(a funeral crosses the street.)
St. Just (to the officer.) Whose obsequies are these,
That look as if the dead one had not perished
By trying our Republican proscription,
The guillotine?
Officer.—'Tis Madame de la Harpe.
Your worthy friend there sent his satellites
To bring her to the bar of your tribunal,
The high-soul'd lady sooner than be made
A gaze for all the outcasts in the city,
As you are now, hurl'd herself from a window.
Robes.—How strange a meeting this! Ah! foolish woman,
Had she but dar'd to live another day,
She might have died at ninety in her bed,
And I, who sought to escape her threatened doom,
Baffled of self-destruction, could not die.
(they pass on.)
(to St. Just.) How small a thing may sometimes change the stream
Of a man's life even to its source, to poison!
A trifle scarcely worthy of a name,
The sarcasms of a brute, while I was pleading
An orphan's cause, convulsed the court with mirth,
Marr'd all my rhetoric, and snatch'd the palm
Of truth and justice from my eager grasp—
My wrath boil'd forth—with loud and fierce reproach
I brav'd the judge, and thunder'd imprecations
On all around. This passion ruin'd me.
And she too laugh'd among that idiot throng—
Oh, tell not me of jealousy or hate
Or hunger for revenge—no sting so fierce,
So all tormenting to a proud man's soul
As public ridicule from lips belov'd.
Have they not rued it? Let yon engine tell:
(pointing to the scaffold in the distance.)
What I have been since then mankind have seen,
But could they see the scorpion that hath fed
Where once a heart beat in this breast of mine,
They would not marvel at my past career.
I quit the world with only one regret,
I would have shown them how the scrivener,
Who with his tongue and pen hath rack'd this land,
Could plague it with a sword. Had yonder cowards
Who vainly hope to save themselves, but stood
As prompt to follow me as I to lead them,
Our faction would have rallied. Might the cries
Of death and rapine through this blazing city
Have been my funeral knell I had gladly died.
Then had they seen my spirit whelm'd and crush'd,
Yet gazing upward like the o'erthrown arch fiend
To a loftier seat than that from which he fell.
But now——
St. Just.—Regrets are useless! such as we
May not join hands or say farewell, like others;
But since we die together, let us face
This reptile crowd, like men who've been their lords,
And show them, though they slay, they cannot daunt
Those who were born to sway their destinies.
(men and women surrounding the cart.)
1st Woman.—Descend to hell, I triumph in thy death!
Die, thou accurs'd of every wife and mother!
May every orphan's wail ring in thy ears,
And every widow's cry, and matron's groan!
2d Woman.—Thine execution maddens me with joy:
Monster, depart—perish, even in thy crimes,
And may our curses sink thee into depths
Whence even omnipotent mercy will not raise thee!
(they shout and hiss him.)
Robes.—Silence awhile these shouts, unfetter'd slaves,
Hear his last words, whose name but yesterday
Struck terror to your souls! Dare ye so soon
Think that your lives are safe, and I still breathing?
Deem ye the blow that speeds my dissolution
And gives my body to the elements,
Will be the signal to call freedom hither?
Will peace and virtue dwell among ye then?
Never! ye bondmen of your own vile passions;
For crested serpents are as meet to range
At large and poison-fang'd among mankind,
As ye who claim a birthright to be free.
Thank your own thirst of plunder and of blood,
That I, and such as I, could reign in France.
A tyrant ye must have. I have been one,
And such a one, that ages hence shall gaze,
Awe-struck on my pre-eminence in blood,
And men shall, marvelling, ask of your descendants
If that my name and deeds be not a fable.
I die—and, Frenchmen, triumph while you may!
The man breathes now and walks abroad among ye,
Who shall be my successor. I can see
Beyond the tomb—and when ye dare to rise
And beard the tyrant faction, now victorious,
His rule commences. He shall spill more blood
In one short day to crush your hopes of freedom,
Than I in half my reign—but God himself
Ne'er had the homage ye shall render him.
Champions of freedom, ye shall worship him,
And in the name of liberty be plunder'd
Of all for which your sons have fought and died;
And in the name of glory he shall lead ye
On to perdition, and when ye have plac'd
Your necks beneath his feet, shall spend like dust
Your treasures and pour forth your bravest blood
To be the scourge of nations and of kings.
And he shall plant your eagles in the west,
And spread your triumphs even to northern snow,
Tormenting man and trampling every law,
Divine and human, till the very name
Of Frenchmen move to nought but hate and scorn.
Then heaven with storms, and earth with all her armies
Shall rise against ye, and the o'erwhelming tide
Of your vast conquests ebb in shame and ruin.
Then—false to honor, native land, and chief!—
Ye who could swarm like locusts on the earth
For glory or for plunder, shall desert,
Or Judas-like betray, the cause of freedom,
And tamely crouch to your now banish'd king,
When foreign swords instale him in his throne:
And laugh and sing while Prussians and Cossacks
Parade the streets of this vice-branded city,
And see without a blush the Austrian flag
And England's banner float o'er Notre Dame.
Bye-word among the nations! Fickle France!
Distant and doubtful is your day of freedom,
If ever it shall dawn, which it ne'er will,
Until ye learn, what my hate would not teach ye.
On, to the scaffold! May my blood infect
With its fierce mania every human heart—
Mourn'd as I am by none! May ye soon prove
Another ruler o'er this land like me.