Tallien. Yet his keen eye that flashes mighty meanings— 50

Legendre. Fear not—or rather fear th' alternative,
And seek for courage e'en in cowardice—
But see—hither he comes—let us away!
His brother with him, and the bloody Couthon,
And high of haughty spirit, young St. Just. 55[Exeunt.

Enter Robespierre, Couthon, St. Just, and Robespierre Junior.

Robespierre. What? did La Fayette fall before my power?
And did I conquer Roland's spotless virtues?
The fervent eloquence of Vergniaud's tongue?
And Brissot's thoughtful soul unbribed and bold?
Did zealot armies haste in vain to save them? 60
What! did th' assassin's dagger aim its point
Vain, as a dream of murder, at my bosom?
And shall I dread the soft luxurious Tallien?
Th' Adonis Tallien? banquet-hunting Tallien?
Him, whose heart flutters at the dice-box? Him, 65
Who ever on the harlots' downy pillow
Resigns his head impure to feverish slumbers!

St. Just. I cannot fear him—yet we must not scorn him.
Was it not Antony that conquer'd Brutus,
Th' Adonis, banquet-hunting Antony? 70
The state is not yet purified: and though
The stream runs clear, yet at the bottom lies
The thick black sediment of all the factions—
It needs no magic hand to stir it up!

Couthon. O we did wrong to spare them—fatal error! 75
Why lived Legendre, when that Danton died?
And Collot d'Herbois dangerous in crimes?
[[498]] I've fear'd him, since his iron heart endured
To make of Lyons one vast human shambles,
Compar'd with which the sun-scorcht wilderness 80
Of Zara were a smiling paradise.

St. Just. Rightly thou judgest, Couthon! He is one
Who flies from silent solitary anguish,
Seeking forgetful peace amid the jar
Of elements. The howl of maniac uproar 85
Lulls to sad sleep the memory of himself.
A calm is fatal to him—then he feels
The dire upboilings of the storm within him.
A tiger mad with inward wounds!—I dread
The fierce and restless turbulence of guilt. 90

Robespierre. Is not the Commune ours? The stern tribunal?
Dumas? and Vivier? Fleuriot? and Louvet?
And Henriot? We'll denounce an hundred, nor
Shall they behold to-morrow's sun roll westward.

Robespierre Junior. Nay—I am sick of blood; my aching heart 95
Reviews the long, long train of hideous horrors
That still have gloom'd the rise of the Republic.
I should have died before Toulon, when war
Became the patriot!

Robespierre. Most unworthy wish!
He, whose heart sickens at the blood of traitors, 100
Would be himself a traitor, were he not
A coward! 'Tis congenial souls alone
Shed tears of sorrow for each other's fate.
O thou art brave, my brother! and thine eye
Full firmly shines amid the groaning battle— 105
Yet in thine heart the woman-form of pity
Asserts too large a share, an ill-timed guest!
There is unsoundness in the state—To-morrow
Shall see it cleans'd by wholesome massacre!