| |
A Poem,
In Seven Books.
Book the First.
London:
Printed for J. Johnson, No 72, St Paul’s Church-yard.
MDCCXCI.
[Price One Shilling.]
Advertisement
The Remaining Books of this Poem are finished, and will be published in their Order.
Book the First
(Printed 1791)
THE DEAD brood over Europe: the cloud and vision descends over cheerful France; | |
| O cloud well appointed! Sick, sick, the Prince on his couch! wreath’d in dim | |
| And appalling mist; his strong hand outstretch’d, from his shoulder down the bone, | |
| Runs aching cold into the sceptre, too heavy for mortal grasp—no more | |
| To be swayèd by visible hand, nor in cruelty bruise the mild flourishing mountains. | 5 |
| |
| Sick the mountains! and all their vineyards weep, in the eyes of the kingly mourner; | |
| Pale is the morning cloud in his visage. Rise, Necker! the ancient dawn calls us | |
| To awake from slumbers of five thousand years. I awake, but my soul is in dreams; | |
| From my window I see the old mountains of France, like agèd men, fading away. | |
| |
| Troubled, leaning on Necker, descends the King to his chamber of council; shady mountains | 10 |
| In fear utter voices of thunder; the woods of France embosom the sound; | |
| Clouds of wisdom prophetic reply, and roll over the palace roof heavy. | |
| Forty men, each conversing with woes in the infinite shadows of his soul, | |
| Like our ancient fathers in regions of twilight, walk, gathering round the King: | |
| Again the loud voice of France cries to the morning; the morning prophesies to its clouds. | 15 |
| |
| For the Commons convene in the Hall of the Nation. France shakes! And the heavens of France | |
| Perplex’d vibrate round each careful countenance! Darkness of old times around them | |
| Utters loud despair, shadowing Paris; her grey towers groan, and the Bastille trembles. | |
| In its terrible towers the Governor stood, in dark fogs list’ning the horror; | |
| A thousand his soldiers, old veterans of France, breathing red clouds of power and dominion. | 20 |
| Sudden seiz’d with howlings, despair, and black night, he stalk’d like a lion from tower | |
| To tower; his howlings were heard in the Louvre; from court to court restless he dragg’d | |
| His strong limbs; from court to court curs’d the fierce torment unquell’d, | |
| Howling and giving the dark command; in his soul stood the purple plague, | |
| Tugging his iron manacles, and piercing thro’ the seven towers dark and sickly, | 25 |
| Panting over the prisoners like a wolf gorg’d. And the den nam’d Horror held a man | |
| Chain’d hand and foot; round his neck an iron band, bound to the impregnable wall; | |
| In his soul was the serpent coil’d round in his heart, hid from the light, as in a cleft rock: | |
| And the man was confin’d for a writing prophetic. In the tower nam’d Darkness was a man | |
| Pinion’d down to the stone floor, his strong bones scarce cover’d with sinews; the iron rings | 30 |
| Were forg’d smaller as the flesh decay’d: a mask of iron on his face hid the lineaments | |
| Of ancient Kings, and the frown of the eternal lion was hid from the oppressèd earth. | |
| In the tower namèd Bloody, a skeleton yellow remainèd in its chains on its couch | |
| Of stone, once a man who refus’d to sign papers of abhorrence; the eternal worm | |
| Crept in the skeleton. In the den nam’d Religion, a loathsome sick woman bound down | 35 |
| To a bed of straw; the seven diseases of earth, like birds of prey, stood on the couch | |
| And fed on the body: she refus’d to be whore to the Minister, and with a knife smote him. | |
| In the tower nam’d Order, an old man, whose white beard cover’d the stone floor like weeds | |
| On margin of the sea, shrivell’d up by heat of day and cold of night; his den was short | |
| And narrow as a grave dug for a child, with spider’s webs wove, and with slime | 40 |
| Of ancient horrors cover’d, for snakes and scorpions are his companions; harmless they breathe | |
| His sorrowful breath: he, by conscience urg’d, in the city of Paris rais’d a pulpit, | |
| And taught wonders to darken’d souls. In the den nam’d Destiny a strong man sat, | |
| His feet and hands cut off, and his eyes blinded; round his middle a chain and a band | |
| Fasten’d into the wall; fancy gave him to see an image of despair in his den, | 45 |
| Eternally rushing round, like a man on his hands and knees, day and night without rest: | |
| He was friend to the favourite. In the seventh tower, nam’d the tower of God, was a man | |
| Mad, with chains loose, which he dragg’d up and down; fed with hopes year by year, he pinèd | |
| For liberty.—Vain hopes! his reason decay’d, and the world of attraction in his bosom | |
| Centred, and the rushing of chaos overwhelm’d his dark soul: he was confin’d | 50 |
| For a letter of advice to a King, and his ravings in winds are heard over Versailles. | |
| |
| But the dens shook and trembled: the prisoners look up and assay to shout; they listen, | |
| Then laugh in the dismal den, then are silent; and a light walks round the dark towers. | |
| For the Commons convene in the Hall of the Nation; like spirits of fire in the beautiful | |
| Porches of the Sun, to plant beauty in the desert craving abyss, they gleam | 55 |
| On the anxious city: all children new-born first behold them, tears are fled, | |
| And they nestle in earth-breathing bosoms. So the city of Paris, their wives and children, | |
| Look up to the morning Senate, and visions of sorrow leave pensive streets. | |
| |
| But heavy-brow’d jealousies lour o’er the Louvre; and terrors of ancient Kings | |
| Descend from the gloom and wander thro’ the palace, and weep round the King and his Nobles; | 60 |
| While loud thunders roll, troubling the dead. Kings are sick throughout all the earth! | |
| The voice ceas’d: the Nation sat; but ancient darkness and trembling wander thro’ the palace. | |
| |
| As in day of havoc and routed battle, among thick shades of discontent, | |
| On the soul-skirting mountains of sorrow cold waving, the Nobles fold round the King; | |
| Each stern visage lock’d up as with strong bands of iron, each strong limb bound down as with marble, | 65 |
| In flames of red wrath burning, bound in astonishment a quarter of an hour. | |
| |
| Then the King glow’d: his Nobles fold round, like the sun of old time quench’d in clouds; | |
| In their darkness the King stood; his heart flam’d, and utter’d a with’ring heat, and these words burst forth: | |
| |
| ‘The nerves of five thousand years’ ancestry tremble, shaking the heavens of France; | |
| Throbs of anguish beat on brazen war foreheads; they descend and look into their graves. | 70 |
| I see thro’ darkness, thro’ clouds rolling round me, the spirits of ancient Kings | |
| Shivering over their bleachèd bones; round them their counsellors look up from the dust, | |
| Crying: “Hide from the living! Our bonds and our prisoners shout in the open field. | |
| Hide in the nether earth! Hide in the bones! Sit obscurèd in the hollow scull! | |
| Our flesh is corrupted, and we wear away. We are not numberèd among the living. Let us hide | 75 |
| In stones, among roots of trees. The prisoners have burst their dens. | |
| Let us hide! let us hide in the dust! and plague and wrath and tempest shall cease.” | |
| |
| He ceas’d, silent pond’ring; his brows folded heavy, his forehead was in affliction. | |
| Like the central fire from the window he saw his vast armies spread over the hills, | |
| Breathing red fires from man to man, and from horse to horse: then his bosom | 80 |
| Expanded like starry heaven; he sat down: his Nobles took their ancient seats. | |
| |
| Then the ancientest Peer, Duke of Burgundy, rose from the Monarch’s right hand, red as wines | |
| From his mountains; an odour of war, like a ripe vineyard, rose from his garments, | |
| And the chamber became as a clouded sky; o’er the Council he stretch’d his red limbs | |
| Cloth’d in flames of crimson; as a ripe vineyard stretches over sheaves of corn, | 85 |
| The fierce Duke hung over the Council; around him crowd, weeping in his burning robe, | |
| A bright cloud of infant souls: his words fall like purple autumn on the sheaves: | |
| |
| ‘Shall this marble-built heaven become a clay cottage, this earth an oak stool, and these mowers | |
| From the Atlantic mountains mow down all this great starry harvest of six thousand years? | |
| And shall Necker, the hind of Geneva, stretch out his crook’d sickle o’er fertile France, | 90 |
| Till our purple and crimson is faded to russet, and the kingdoms of earth bound in sheaves, | |
| And the ancient forests of chivalry hewn, and the joys of the combat burnt for fuel; | |
| Till the power and dominion is rent from the pole, sword and sceptre from sun and moon, | |
| The law and gospel from fire and air, and eternal reason and science | |
| From the deep and the solid, and man lay his faded head down on the rock | 95 |
| Of eternity, where the eternal lion and eagle remain to devour? | |
| This to prevent, urg’d by cries in day, and prophetic dreams hovering in night, | |
| To enrich the lean earth that craves, furrow’d with ploughs, whose seed is departing from her, | |
| Thy Nobles have gather’d thy starry hosts round this rebellious city, | |
| To rouse up the ancient forests of Europe, with clarions of cloud-breathing war, | 100 |
| To hear the horse neigh to the drum and trumpet, and the trumpet and war shout reply. | |
| Stretch the hand that beckons the eagles of heaven: they cry over Paris, and wait | |
| Till Fayette point his finger to Versailles—the eagles of heaven must have their prey!’ | |
| |
| He ceas’d, and burn’d silent: red clouds roll round Necker; a weeping is heard o’er the palace. | |
| Like a dark cloud Necker paus’d, and like thunder on the just man’s burial day he paus’d. | 105 |
| Silent sit the winds, silent the meadows; while the husbandman and woman of weakness | |
| And bright children look after him into the grave, and water his clay with love, | |
| Then turn towards pensive fields: so Necker paus’d, and his visage was cover’d with clouds. | |
| |
| The King lean’d on his mountains; then lifted his head and look’d on his armies, that shone | |
| Thro’ heaven, tinging morning with beams of blood; then turning to Burgundy, troubled:— | 110 |
| ‘Burgundy, thou wast born a lion! My soul is o’ergrown with distress | |
| For the Nobles of France, and dark mists roll round me and blot the writing of God | |
| Written in my bosom. Necker rise! leave the kingdom, thy life is surrounded with snares. | |
| We have call’d an Assembly, but not to destroy; we have given gifts, not to the weak; | |
| I hear rushing of muskets and bright’ning of swords; and visages, redd’ning with war, | 115 |
| Frowning and looking up from brooding villages and every dark’ning city. | |
| Ancient wonders frown over the kingdom, and cries of women and babes are heard, | |
| And tempests of doubt roll around me, and fierce sorrows, because of the Nobles of France. | |
| Depart! answer not! for the tempest must fall, as in years that are passèd away.’ | |
| |
| Dropping a tear the old man his place left, and when he was gone out | 120 |
| He set his face toward Geneva to flee; and the women and children of the city | |
| Kneel’d round him and kissèd his garments and wept: he stood a short space in the street, | |
| Then fled; and the whole city knew he was fled to Geneva, and the Senate heard it. | |
| |
| But the Nobles burn’d wrathful at Necker’s departure, and wreath’d their clouds and waters | |
| In dismal volumes; as, risen from beneath, the Archbishop of Paris arose | 125 |
| In the rushing of scales, and hissing of flames, and rolling of sulphurous smoke:— | |
| |
| ‘Hearken, Monarch of France, to the terrors of heaven, and let thy soul drink of my counsel! | |
| Sleeping at midnight in my golden tower, the repose of the labours of men | |
| Wav’d its solemn cloud over my head. I awoke; a cold hand passèd over my limbs, and behold! | |
| An agèd form, white as snow, hov’ring in mist, weeping in the uncertain light. | 130 |
| Dim the form almost faded, tears fell down the shady cheeks; at his feet many cloth’d | |
| In white robes, strewn in air censers and harps, silent they lay prostrated; | |
| Beneath, in the awful void, myriads descending and weeping thro’ dismal winds; | |
| Endless the shady train shiv’ring descended, from the gloom where the agèd form wept. | |
| At length, trembling, the vision sighing, in a low voice like the voice of the grasshopper, whisper’d: | 135 |
| “My groaning is heard in the abbeys, and God, so long worshipp’d, departs as a lamp | |
| Without oil; for a curse is heard hoarse thro’ the land, from a godless race | |
| Descending to beasts; they look downward, and labour, and forget my holy law; | |
| The sound of prayer fails from lips of flesh, and the holy hymn from thicken’d tongues; | |
| For the bars of Chaos are burst; her millions prepare their fiery way | 140 |
| Thro’ the orbèd abode of the holy dead, to root up and pull down and remove, | |
| And Nobles and Clergy shall fail from before me, and my cloud and vision be no more; | |
| The mitre become black, the crown vanish, and the sceptre and ivory staff | |
| Of the ruler wither among bones of death; they shall consume from the thistly field, | |
| And the sound of the bell, and voice of the sabbath, and singing of the holy choir | 145 |
| Is turn’d into songs of the harlot in day, and cries of the virgin in night. | |
| They shall drop at the plough and faint at the harrow, unredeem’d, unconfess’d, unpardon’d; | |
| The priest rot in his surplice by the lawless lover, the holy beside the accursèd, | |
| The King, frowning in purple, beside the grey ploughman, and their worms embrace together.” | |
| The voice ceas’d: a groan shook my chamber. I slept, for the cloud of repose returnèd; | 150 |
| But morning dawn’d heavy upon me. I rose to bring my Prince heaven-utter’d counsel. | |
| Hear my counsel, O King! and send forth thy Generals; the command of Heaven is upon thee! | |
| Then do thou command, O King! to shut up this Assembly in their final home; | |
| Let thy soldiers possess this city of rebels, that threaten to bathe their feet | |
| In the blood of Nobility, trampling the heart and the head; let the Bastille devour | 155 |
| These rebellious seditious; seal them up, O Anointed! in everlasting chains.’ | |
| He sat down: a damp cold pervaded the Nobles, and monsters of worlds unknown | |
| Swam round them, watching to be deliverèd—when Aumont, whose chaos-born soul | |
| Eternally wand’ring, a comet and swift-falling fire, pale enter’d the chamber. | |
| Before the red Council he stood, like a man that returns from hollow graves:— | 160 |
| |
| ‘Awe-surrounded, alone thro’ the army, a fear and a with’ring blight blown by the north, | |
| The Abbé de Sieyes from the Nation’s Assembly, O Princes and Generals of France, | |
| Unquestionèd, unhinderèd! Awe-struck are the soldiers; a dark shadowy man in the form | |
| Of King Henry the Fourth walks before him in fires; the captains like men bound in chains | |
| Stood still as he pass’d: he is come to the Louver, O King, with a message to thee! | 165 |
| The strong soldiers tremble, the horses their manes bow, and the guards of thy palace are fled!’ | |
| |
| Uprose awful in his majestic beams Bourbon’s strong Duke; his proud sword, from his thigh | |
| Drawn, he threw on the earth: the Duke of Bretagne and the Earl of Bourgogne | |
| Rose inflam’d, to and fro in the chamber, like thunder-clouds ready to burst. | |
| |
| ‘What damp all our fires, O spectre of Henry!’ said Bourbon, ‘and rend the flames | 170 |
| From the head of our King? Rise, Monarch of France! command me, and I will lead | |
| This army of superstition at large, that the ardour of noble souls, quenchless, | |
| May yet burn in France, nor our shoulders be plough’d with the furrows of poverty.’ | |
| |
| Then Orleans, generous as mountains, arose and unfolded his robe, and put forth | |
| His benevolent hand, looking on the Archbishop, who changèd as pale as lead, | 175 |
| Would have risen but could not: his voice issuèd harsh grating; instead of words harsh hissings | |
| Shook the chamber; he ceas’d abash’d. Then Orleans spoke; all was silent. | |
| He breath’d on them, and said: ‘O Princes of fire, whose flames are for growth, not consuming, | |
| Fear not dreams, fear not visions, nor be you dismay’d with sorrows which flee at the morning! | |
| Can the fires of Nobility ever be quench’d, or the stars by a stormy night? | 180 |
| Is the body diseas’d when the members are healthful? can the man be bound in sorrow | |
| Whose ev’ry function is fill’d with its fiery desire? can the soul, whose brain and heart | |
| Cast their rivers in equal tides thro’ the great Paradise, languish because the feet, | |
| Hands, head, bosom, and parts of love follow their high breathing joy? | |
| And can Nobles be bound when the people are free, or God weep when his children are happy? | 185 |
| Have you never seen Fayette’s forehead, or Mirabeau’s eyes, or the shoulders of Target, | |
| Or Bailly the strong foot of France, or Clermont the terrible voice, and your robes | |
| Still retain their own crimson?—Mine never yet faded, for fire delights in its form! | |
| But go, merciless man, enter into the infinite labyrinth of another’s brain | |
| Ere thou measure the circle that he shall run. Go, thou cold recluse, into the fires | 190 |
| Of another’s high flaming rich bosom, and return unconsum’d, and write laws. | |
| If thou canst not do this, doubt thy theories, learn to consider all men as thy equals, | |
| Thy brethren, and not as thy foot or thy hand, unless thou first fearest to hurt them.’ | |
| |
| The Monarch stood up; the strong Duke his sword to its golden scabbard return’d; | |
| The Nobles sat round like clouds on the mountains, when the storm is passing away:— | 195 |
| ‘Let the Nation’s Ambassador come among Nobles, like incense of the valley!’ | |
| |
| Aumont went out and stood in the hollow porch, his ivory wand in his hand; | |
| A cold orb of disdain revolv’d round him, and coverèd his soul with snows eternal. | |
| Great Henry’s soul shudderèd, a whirlwind and fire tore furious from his angry bosom; | |
| He indignant departed on horses of heav’n. Then the Abbé de Sieyes rais’d his feet | 200 |
| On the steps of the Louvre; like a voice of God following a storm, the Abbé follow’d | |
| The pale fires of Aumont into the chamber; as a father that bows to his son, | |
| Whose rich fields inheriting spread their old glory, so the voice of the people bowèd | |
| Before the ancient seat of the kingdom and mountains to be renewèd. | |
| |
| ‘Hear, O heavens of France! the voice of the people, arising from valley and hill, | 205 |
| O’erclouded with power. Hear the voice of valleys, the voice of meek cities, | |
| Mourning oppressèd on village and field, till the village and field is a waste. | |
| For the husbandman weeps at blights of the fife, and blasting of trumpets consume | |
| The souls of mild France; the pale mother nourishes her child to the deadly slaughter. | |
| When the heavens were seal’d with a stone, and the terrible sun clos’d in an orb, and the moon | 210 |
| Rent from the nations, and each star appointed for watchers of night, | |
| The millions of spirits immortal were bound in the ruins of sulphur heaven | |
| To wander enslav’d; black, despress’d in dark ignorance, kept in awe with the whip | |
| To worship terrors, bred from the blood of revenge and breath of desire | |
| In bestial forms, or more terrible men; till the dawn of our peaceful morning, | 215 |
| Till dawn, till morning, till the breaking of clouds, and swelling of winds, and the universal voice; | |
| Till man raise his darken’d limbs out of the caves of night. His eyes and his heart | |
| Expand—Where is Space? where; O Sun, is thy dwelling? where thy tent, O faint slumb’rous Moon? | |
| Then the valleys of France shall cry to the soldier: “Throw down thy sword and musket, | |
| And run and embrace the meek peasant.” Her Nobles shall hear and shall weep, and put off | 220 |
| The red robe of terror, the crown of oppression, the shoes of contempt, and unbuckle | |
| The girdle of war from the desolate earth. Then the Priest in his thund’rous cloud | |
| Shall weep, bending to earth, embracing the valleys, and putting his hand to the plough, | |
| Shall say: “No more I curse thee; but now I will bless thee: no more in deadly black | |
| Devour thy labour; nor lift up a cloud in thy heavens, O laborious plough; | 225 |
| That the wild raging millions, that wander in forests, and howl in law-blasted wastes, | |
| Strength madden’d with slavery, honesty bound in the dens of superstition, | |
| May sing in the village, and shout in the harvest, and woo in pleasant gardens | |
| Their once savage loves, now beaming with knowledge, with gentle awe adornèd; | |
| And the saw, and the hammer, the chisel, the pencil, the pen, and the instruments | 230 |
| Of heavenly song sound in the wilds once forbidden, to teach the laborious ploughman | |
| And shepherd, deliver’d from clouds of war, from pestilence, from night-fear, from murder, | |
| From falling, from stifling, from hunger, from cold, from slander, discontent and sloth, | |
| That walk in beasts and birds of night, driven back by the sandy desert, | |
| Like pestilent fogs round cities of men; and the happy earth sing in its course, | 235 |
| The mild peaceable nations be openèd to heav’n, and men walk with their fathers in bliss.” | |
| Then hear the first voice of the morning: “Depart, O clouds of night, and no more | |
| Return; be withdrawn cloudy war, troops of warriors depart, nor around our peaceable city | |
| Breathe fires; but ten miles from Paris let all be peace, nor a soldier be seen!”’ | |
| |
| He ended: the wind of contention arose, and the clouds cast their shadows; the Princes | 240 |
| Like the mountains of France, whose agèd trees utter an awful voice, and their branches | |
| Are shatter’d; till gradual a murmur is heard descending into the valley, | |
| Like a voice in the vineyards of Burgundy when grapes are shaken on grass, | |
| Like the low voice of the labouring man, instead of the shout of joy; | |
| And the palace appear’d like a cloud driven abroad; blood ran down the ancient pillars. | 245 |
| Thro’ the cloud a deep thunder, the Duke of Burgundy, delivers the King’s command:— | |
| |
| ‘Seest thou yonder dark castle, that moated around, keeps this city of Paris in awe? | |
| Go, command yonder tower, saying: “Bastille, depart! and take thy shadowy course; | |
| Overstep the dark river, thou terrible tower, and get thee up into the country ten miles. | |
| And thou black southern prison, move along the dusky road to Versailles; there | 250 |
| Frown on the gardens”—and, if it obey and depart, then the King will disband | |
| This war-breathing army; but, if it refuse, let the Nation’s Assembly thence learn | |
| That this army of terrors, that prison of horrors, are the bands of the murmuring kingdom.’ | |
| |
| Like the morning star arising above the black waves, when a shipwreck’d soul sighs for morning, | |
| Thro’ the ranks, silent, walk’d the Ambassador back to the Nation’s Assembly, and told | 255 |
| The unwelcome message. Silent they heard; then a thunder roll’d round loud and louder; | |
| Like pillars of ancient halls and ruins of times remote, they sat. | |
| Like a voice from the dim pillars Mirabeau rose; the thunders subsided away; | |
| A rushing of wings around him was heard as he brighten’d, and cried out aloud: | |
| ‘Where is the General of the Nation?’ The walls re-echo’d: | 260 |
| ‘Where is the General of the Nation?’ | |
| |
| Sudden as the bullet wrapp’d in his fire, when brazen cannons rage in the field, | |
| Fayette sprung from his seat saying ‘Ready!’ Then bowing like clouds, man toward man, the Assembly | |
| Like a Council of Ardours seated in clouds, bending over the cities of men, | |
| And over the armies of strife, where their children are marshall’d together to battle, | 265 |
| They murmuring divide; while the wind sleeps beneath, and the numbers are counted in silence, | |
| While they vote the removal of War, and the pestilence weighs his red wings in the sky. | |
| |
| So Fayette stood silent among the Assembly, and the votes were given, and the numbers numb’red; | |
| And the vote was that Fayette should order the army to remove ten miles from Paris. | |
| |
| The agèd Sun rises appall’d from dark mountains, and gleams a dusky beam | 270 |
| On Fayette; but on the whole army a shadow, for a cloud on the eastern hills | |
| Hover’d, and stretch’d across the city, and across the army, and across the Louvre. | |
| Like a flame of fire he stood before dark ranks, and before expecting captains: | |
| On pestilent vapours around him flow frequent spectres of religious men, weeping | |
| In winds; driven out of the abbeys, their naked souls shiver in keen open air; | 275 |
| Driven out by the fiery cloud of Voltaire, and thund’rous rocks of Rousseau, | |
| They dash like foam against the ridges of the army, uttering a faint feeble cry. | |
| |
| Gleams of fire streak the heavens, and of sulphur the earth, from Fayette as he lifted his hand; | |
| But silent he stood, till all the officers rush round him like waves | |
| Round the shore of France, in day of the British flag, when heavy cannons | 280 |
| Affright the coasts, and the peasant looks over the sea and wipes a tear: | |
| Over his head the soul of Voltaire shone fiery; and over the army Rousseau his white cloud | |
| Unfolded, on souls of war, living terrors, silent list’ning toward Fayette. | |
| His voice loud inspir’d by liberty, and by spirits of the dead, thus thunder’d:— | |
| |
| ‘The Nation’s Assembly command that the Army remove ten miles from Paris; | 285 |
| Nor a soldier be seen in road or in field, till the Nation command return.’ | |
| |
| Rushing along iron ranks glittering, the officers each to his station | |
| Depart, and the stern captain strokes his proud steed, and in front of his solid ranks | |
| Waits the sound of trumpet; captains of foot stand each by his cloudy drum: | |
| Then the drum beats, and the steely ranks move, and trumpets rejoice in the sky. | 290 |
| Dark cavalry, like clouds fraught with thunder, ascend on the hills, and bright infantry, rank | |
| Behind rank, to the soul-shaking drum and shrill fife, along the roads glitter like fire. | |
| |
| The noise of trampling, the wind of trumpets, smote the Palace walls with a blast. | |
| Pale and cold sat the King in midst of his Peers, and his noble heart sunk, and his pulses | |
| Suspended their motion; a darkness crept over his eyelids, and chill cold sweat | 295 |
| Sat round his brows faded in faint death; his Peers pale like mountains of the dead, | |
| Cover’d with dews of night, groaning, shaking forests and floods. The cold newt, | |
| And snake, and damp toad on the kingly foot crawl, or croak on the awful knee, | |
| Shedding their slime; in folds of the robe the crown’d adder builds and hisses | |
| From stony brows: shaken the forests of France, sick the kings of the nations, | 300 |
| And the bottoms of the world were open’d, and the graves of archangels unseal’d: | |
| The enormous dead lift up their pale fires and look over the rocky cliffs. | |
| |
| A faint heat from their fires reviv’d the cold Louvre; the frozen blood reflow’d. | |
| Awful uprose the King; him the Peers follow’d; they saw the courts of the Palace | |
| Forsaken, and Paris without a soldier, silent. For the noise was gone up | 305 |
And follow’d the army; and the Senate in peace sat beneath morning’s beam.
END OF THE FIRST BOOK. | |
| |
