Demon alike in mind and face, he dreamt not of his fall,
Yet him the noble maiden doomed to vengeance and to Gaul.
O! had an artist seen them there as face to face they stand;
The noblest and the meanest mind in all that bleeding land;
The loveliest and most hideous forms that pencil could portray—
A picture might on canvas live that would not pass away.
“Point out the foes of France,” he said, “and ere to-morrow shine,
The blood, now warm within their veins, shall stain the guillotine.”
“The guillotine!” the maid exclaimed, the steel a moment gleams,
A moment more ’tis in his heart; adieu to all his dreams!