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BOOK TENTH.

RESIDENCE IN FRANCE.

CONTINUED.

RESIDENCE IN FRANCE.

CONTINUED.

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.

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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.

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