The Literary Remains of Samuel Taylor Coleridge Volume I Part 7

Hark! how the noise increases! through the gloom Of the still evening--harbinger of death Rings the tocsin! the dreadful generale Thunders through Paris--

[Cry without --Down with the tyrant!]

[Enter LECOINTRE.]

LECOINTRE.

So may eternal justice blast the foes Of France! so perish all the tyrant brood, As Robespierre has perish'd! Citizens, Caesar is taken.

[Loud and repeated Applauses.]

I marvel not, that, with such fearless front, He braved our vengeance, and with angry eye Scowl'd round the hall defiance. He relied On Henriot's aid--the Commune's villain friends.h.i.+p, And Henriot's boughten succours. Ye have heard How Henriot rescued him--how with open arms The Commune welcomed in the rebel tyrant-- How Fleuriot aided, and seditious Vivier Stirr'd up the Jacobins. All had been lost-- The representatives of France had perish'd-- Freedom had sunk beneath the tyrant arm Of this foul parricide, but that her spirit Inspired the men of Paris. Henriot call'd "To arms" in vain, whilst Bourdon's patriot voice Breathed eloquence, and o'er the Jacobins Legendre frown'd dismay. The tyrants fled-- They reach'd the Hotel. We gather'd round--we call'd For vengeance! Long time, obstinate in despair, With knives they hack'd around them. Till foreboding The sentence of the law, the clamorous cry Of joyful thousands hailing their destruction, Each sought by suicide to escape the dread Of death. Lebas succeeded. From the window Leap'd the younger Robespierre; but his fractur'd limb Forbade to escape. The self-will'd dictator Plung'd often the keen knife in his dark breast, Yet impotent to die. He lives, all mangled By his own tremulous hand! All gash'd and gored, He lives to taste the bitterness of death.

Even now they meet their doom. The b.l.o.o.d.y Couthon, The fierce St. Just, even now attend their tyrant To fall beneath the axe. I saw the torches Flash on their visages a dreadful light-- I saw them whilst the black blood roll'd adown Each stern face, even then with dauntless eye Scowl round contemptuous, dying as they lived, Fearless of fate!

[Loud and repeated Applauses.]

BARRERE [mounts the Tribune.]

For ever hallow'd be this glorious day, When Freedom, bursting her oppressive chain, Tramples on the oppressor. When the tyrant, Hurl'd from his blood-cemented throne by the arm Of the almighty people, meets the death He plann'd for thousands. Oh! my sickening heart Has sunk within me, when the various woes Of my brave country crowded o'er my brain In ghastly numbers--when a.s.sembled hordes, Dragg'd from their hovels by despotic power, Rush'd o'er her frontiers, plunder'd her fair hamlets, And sack'd her populous towns, and drench'd with blood The reeking fields of Flanders.--When within, Upon her vitals prey'd the rankling tooth Of treason; and oppression, giant form, Trampling on freedom, left the alternative Of slavery, or of death. Even from that day, When, on the guilty Capet, I p.r.o.nounced The doom of injured France, has faction rear'd Her hated head amongst us. Roland preach'd Of mercy--the uxorious, dotard Roland, The woman-govern'd Roland durst aspire To govern France; and Petion talk'd of virtue, And Vergniaud's eloquence, like the honey'd tongue Of some soft Syren wooed us to destruction.

We triumph'd over these. On the same scaffold Where the last Louis pour'd his guilty blood, Fell Brissot's head, the womb of darksome treasons, And Orleans, villain kinsman of the Capet, And Hebert's atheist crew, whose maddening hand Hurl'd down the altars of the living G.o.d, With all the infidel's intolerance.

The last worst traitor triumph'd--triumph'd long, Secured by matchless villany. By turns Defending and deserting each accomplice As interest prompted. In the goodly soil Of Freedom, the foul tree of treason struck Its deep-fix'd roots, and dropt the dews of death On all who slumber'd in its specious shade.

He wove the web of treachery. He caught The listening crowd by his wild eloquence, His cool ferocity that persuaded murder, Even whilst it spake of mercy!--never, never Shall this regenerated country wear The despot yoke. Though myriads round a.s.sail, And with worse fury urge this new crusade Than savages have known; though the leagued despots Depopulate all Europe, so to pour The acc.u.mulated ma.s.s upon our coasts, Sublime amid the storm shall France arise, And like the rock amid surrounding waves Repel the rus.h.i.+ng ocean.--She shall wield The thunder-bolt of vengeance--she shall blast The despot's pride, and liberate the world!

POEMS

--medio de fonte leporum Surgit amari aliquid.--- LUCRET.

"JULIA WAS BLEST WITH BEAUTY, WIT AND GRACE..."

Julia was blest with beauty, wit, and grace: Small poets loved to sing her blooming face.

Before her altars, lo! a numerous train Preferr'd their vows; yet all preferr'd in vain: Till charming Florio, born to conquer, came, And touch'd the fair one with an equal flame.

The flame she felt, and ill could she conceal What every look and action would reveal.

With boldness then, which seldom fails to move, He pleads the cause of marriage and of love; The course of hymeneal joys he rounds, The fair one's eyes dance pleasure at the sounds.

Nought now remain'd but "Noes"--how little meant-- And the sweet coyness that endears consent.

The youth upon his knees enraptur'd fell:-- The strange misfortune, oh! what words can tell?

Tell! ye neglected sylphs! who lap-dogs guard, Why s.n.a.t.c.h'd ye not away your precious ward?

Why suffer'd ye the lover's weight to fall On the ill-fated neck of much-loved Ball?

The favourite on his mistress cast his eyes, Gives a short melancholy howl, and--dies!

Sacred his ashes lie, and long his rest!

Anger and grief divide poor Julia's breast.

Her eyes she fix'd on guilty Florio first, On him the storm of angry grief must burst.

That storm he fled:--he wooes a kinder fair, Whose fond affections no dear puppies share.

'Twere vain to tell how Julia pined away;-- Unhappy fair, that in one luckless day (From future almanacks the day be crost!) At once her lover and her lap-dog lost!

1789. [1]

[Footnote 1: This copy of verses was written at Christ's Hospital, and transcribed, 'honoris causa', into the book kept by the head-master, Mr.

Bowyer, for that purpose. They are printed by Mr. Trollope in p. 192 of his 'History of the Hospital', published in 1834. Ed.]

"I YET REMAIN..."

--I yet remain To mourn the hours of youth (yet mourn in vain) That fled neglected: wisely thou hast trod The better path--and that high meed which G.o.d a.s.sign'd to virtue, tow'ring from the dust, Shall wait thy rising, Spirit pure and just.

O G.o.d! how sweet it were to think, that all Who silent mourn around this gloomy ball Might hear the voice of joy;--but 'tis the will Of man's great Author, that through good and ill Calm he should hold his course, and so sustain His varied lot of pleasure, toil, and pain!

1793. [1]

[Footnote 1: These lines were found in Mr. Coleridge's hand-writing in one of the Prayer Books in the chapel of Jesus College, Cambridge. Ed.]

TO THE REV. W. J. HORT. [1]

Hus.h.!.+ ye clamorous cares, be mute!

Again, dear harmonist! again Through the hollow of thy flute Breathe that pa.s.sion-warbled strain; Till memory back each form shall bring The loveliest of her shadowy throng, And hope, that soars on sky-lark wing, Shall carol forth her gladdest song!

O skill'd with magic spell to roll The thrilling tones that concentrate the soul!

Breathe through thy flute those tender notes again, While near thee sits the chaste-eyed maiden mild; And bid her raise the poet's kindred strain In soft impa.s.sion'd voice, correctly wild.

In freedom's undivided dell, Where toil and health with mellow'd love shall dwell-- Far from folly, far from men, In the rude romantic glen, Up the cliff, and through the glade, Wand'ring with the dear-loved maid, I shall listen to the lay, And ponder on thee far away;-- Still as she bids those thrilling notes aspire (Making my fond attuned heart her lyre), Thy honour'd form, my friend! shall reappear, And I will thank thee with a raptured tear!

1794.

[Footnote 1: Mr. Hort was a Unitarian clergyman, and in 1794 second master in Mr. (afterwards Dr.) Estlin's school on St. Michael's Hill, Bristol. Ed.]

TO CHARLES LAMB,