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.
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 tomorrow’s sun roll westward.
Nay—I am sick of blood; my aching heart
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!
Most unworthy wish!
He, whose heart sickens at the blood of traitors,
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—
Yet in thine heart the woman-form of pity
Asserts too large a share, an ill-timed guest!
There is unsoundness in the state—Tomorrow
Shall see it cleans’d by wholesome massacre!
Beware! already do the sections murmur—
“O the great glorious patriot, Robespierre—
The tyrant guardian of the country’s freedom!”
’Twere folly sure to work great deeds by halves!
Much I suspect the darksome fickle heart
Of cold Barrere!
I see the villain in him!
If he—if all forsake thee—what remains?
Myself! the steel-strong Rectitude of soul
And Poverty sublime ’mid circling virtues!
The giant Victories my counsels form’d
Shall stalk around me with sun-glittering plumes,
Bidding the darts of calumny fall pointless. Exeunt caeteri. Manet Couthon.
Solus.
So we deceive ourselves! What goodly virtues
Bloom on the poisonous branches of ambition!
Still, Robespierre! thou’lt guard thy country’s freedom
To despotize in all the patriot’s pomp.
While Conscience, ’mid the mob’s applauding clamours,
Sleeps in thine ear, nor whispers—bloodstain’d tyrant!
Yet what is Conscience? Superstition’s dream,
Making such deep impression on our sleep—
That long th’ awakened breast retains its horrors!
But he returns—and with him comes Barrere. Exit Couthon.
There is no danger but in cowardice.—
Barrere! we make the danger, when we fear it.
We have such force without, as will suspend
The cold and trembling treachery of these members.
’Twill be a pause of terror.—
But to whom?
Rather the short-lived slumber of the tempest,
Gathering its strength anew. The dastard traitors!
Moles, that would undermine the rooted oak!
A pause!—a moment’s pause?—’Tis all their life.
Yet much they talk—and plausible their speech.
Couthon’s decree has given such powers, that—
That what?
The freedom of debate—
Transparent mask!
They wish to clog the wheels of government,
Forcing the hand that guides the vast machine
To bribe them to their duty—English patriots!
Are not the congregated clouds of war
Black all around us? In our very vitals
Works not the king-bred poison of rebellion?
Say, what shall counteract the selfish plottings
Of wretches, cold of heart, nor awed by fears
Of him, whose power directs th’ eternal justice?
Terror? or secret-sapping gold? The first
Heavy, but transient as the ills that cause it;
And to the virtuous patriot rendered light
By the necessities that gave it birth:
The other fouls the fount of the republic,
Making it flow polluted to all ages:
Inoculates the state with a slow venom,
That once imbibed, must be continued ever.
Myself incorruptible I ne’er could bribe them—
Therefore they hate me.
Are the sections friendly?
There are who wish my ruin—but I’ll make them
Blush for the crime in blood!
Nay—but I tell thee,
Thou art too fond of slaughter—and the right
(If right it be) workest by most foul means!
Self-centering Fear! how well thou canst ape Mercy!
Too fond of slaughter!—matchless hypocrite!
Thought Barrere so, when Brissot, Danton died?
Thought Barrere so, when through the streaming streets
Of Paris red-eyed Massacre o’erwearied
Reel’d heavily, intoxicate with blood?
And when (O heavens!) in Lyons’ death-red square
Sick Fancy groan’d o’er putrid hills of slain,
Didst thou not fiercely laugh, and bless the day?
Why, thou hast been the mouthpiece of all horrors,
And, like a bloodhound, crouch’d for murder! Now
Aloof thou standest from the tottering pillar,
Or, like a frighted child behind its mother,
Hidest thy pale face in the skirts of—Mercy!
O prodigality of eloquent anger!
Why now I see thou’rt weak—thy case is desperate!
The cool ferocious Robespierre turn’d scolder!
Who from a bad man’s bosom wards the blow
Reserves the whetted dagger for his own.
Denounced twice—and twice I saved his life! Exit.
The sections will support them—there’s the point!
No! he can never weather out the storm—
Yet he is sudden in revenge—No more!
I must away to Tallien. Exit.
Scene changes to the house of Adelaide.
Adelaide enters, speaking to a Servant.
Didst thou present the letter that I gave thee?
Did Tallien answer, he would soon return?
He is in the Thuilleries—with him Legendre—
In deep discourse they seem’d: as I approach’d
He waved his hand as bidding me retire:
I did not interrupt him. Returns the letter.
Thou didst rightly. Exit Servant.
O this new freedom! at how dear a price
We’ve bought the seeming good! The peaceful virtues
And every blandishment of private life,
The father’s cares, the mother’s fond endearment,
All sacrificed to liberty’s wild riot.
The wingèd hours, that scatter’d roses round me,
Languid and sad drag their slow course along,
And shake big gall-drops from their heavy wings.
But I will steal away these anxious thoughts
By the soft languishment of warbled airs,
If haply melodies may lull the sense
Of sorrow for a while. Soft music.
Music, my love? O breathe again that air!
Soft nurse of pain, it sooths the weary soul
Of care, sweet as the whisper’d breeze of evening
That plays around the sick man’s throbbing temples.
Song.3
Tell me, on what holy ground
May domestic peace be found?
Halcyon daughter of the skies,
Far on fearful wing she flies,
From the pomp of scepter’d state,
From the rebel’s noisy hate.
In a cottag’d vale she dwells
List’ning to the Sabbath bells!
Still around her steps are seen,
Spotless honor’s meeker mien,
Love, the sire of pleasing fears,
Sorrow smiling through her tears,
And conscious of the past employ,
Memory, bosom-spring of joy.
I thank thee, Adelaide! ’twas
