It was a beautiful and silent day That overspread the countenance of earth, Then fading with unusual quietness,- A day as beautiful as e'er was given
To soothe regret, though deepening what it soothed, When by the gliding Loire I paused, and cast Upon his rich domains, vineyard and tilth, Green meadow-ground, and many-colored woods, Again, and yet again, a farewell look;
Then from the quiet of that scene passed on, Bound to the fierce Metropolis. From his throne The King had fallen, and that invading host- Presumptuous cloud, on whose black front was written
The tender mercies of the dismal wind That bore it
on the plains of Liberty.
Had burst innocuous. Say in bolder words,
They who had come elate as Eastern hunters
Banded beneath the Great Mogul, when he
Erewhile went forth from Agra or Lahore, Rajahs and Omrahs in his train, intent To drive their prey inclosed within a ring Wide as a province, but, the signal given, Before the point of the life-threatening spear Narrowing itself by moments,—they, rash men, Had seen the anticipated quarry turned Into avengers, from whose wrath they fled In terror. Disappointment and dismay Remained for all whose fancies had run wild With evil expectations; confidence And perfect triumph for the better cause.
The State, as if to stamp the final seal On her security, and to the world
Show what she was, a high and fearless soul, Exulting in defiance, or heart-stung By sharp resentment, or belike to taunt With spiteful gratitude the baffled League, That had stirred up her slackening faculties
To a new transition, when the King was crushed, Spared not the empty throne, and in proud haste Assumed the body and venerable name
Of a Republic. Lamentable crimes,
'Tis true, had gone before this hour, dire work Of massacre, in which the senseless sword Was prayed to as a judge; but these were past, Earth free from them for ever, as was thought, Ephemeral monsters, to be seen but once! Things that could only show themselves and die.
Cheered with this hope, to Paris I returned, And ranged, with ardor heretofore unfelt, The spacious city, and in progress passed The prison where the unhappy Monarch lay, Associate with his children and his wife
In bondage; and the palace, lately stormed With roar of cannon by a furious host. I crossed the square (an empty area then!) Of the Carrousel, where so late had lain The dead, upon the dying heaped, and gazed On this and other spots, as doth a man Upon a volume whose contents he knows Are memorable, but from him locked up, Being written in a tongue he cannot read, So that he questions the mute leaves with pain, And half upbraids their silence. But that night
I felt most deeply in what world I was,
What ground I trod on, and what air I breathed. High was my room and lonely, near the roof Of a large mansion or hotel, a lodge
That would have pleased me in more quiet times; Nor was it wholly without pleasure then. With unextinguished taper I kept watch, Reading at intervals; the fear gone by Pressed on me almost like a fear to come. I thought of those September massacres, Divided from me by one little month,
Saw them, and touched: the rest was conjured up From tragic fictions or true history,
Remembrances and dim admonishments.
« IndietroContinua » |