BOOK TENTH

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-coloured 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 enclosed 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 ardour 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.

The horse is taught his manage, and no star

Of wildest course but treads back his own steps;

For the spent hurricane the air provides

As fierce a successor; the tide retreats

But to return out of its hiding-place

In the great deep; all things have second-birth;

The earthquake is not satisfied at once;

And in this way I wrought upon myself,

Until I seemed to hear a voice that cried,

To the whole city, “Sleep no more.” The trance

Fled with the voice to which it had given birth;

But vainly comments of a calmer mind

Promised soft peace and sweet forgetfulness.

The place, all hushed and silent as it was,

Appeared unfit for the repose of night,

Defenceless as a wood where tigers roam.

With early morning towards the Palace-walk

Of Orléans eagerly I turned; as yet

The streets were still; not so those long Arcades;

There,‘ mid a peal of ill-matched sounds and cries,

That greeted me on entering, I could hear

Shrill voices from the hawkers in the throng,

Bawling, “Denunciation of the Crimes

Of Maximilian Robespierre;” the hand,

Prompt as the voice, held forth a printed speech,

The same that had been recently pronounced,

When Robespierre, not ignorant for what mark

Some words of indirect reproof had been

Intended, rose in hardihood, and dared

The man who had an ill surmise of him

To bring his charge in openness; whereat,

When a dead pause ensued, and no one stirred,

In silence of all present, from his seat

Louvet walked single through the avenue,

And took his station in the Tribune, saying,

“I, Robespierre, accuse thee!” Well is known

The inglorious issue of that charge, and how

He, who had launched the startling thunderbolt,

The one bold man, whose voice the attack had sounded,

Was left without a follower to discharge

His perilous duty, and retire lamenting

That Heaven's best aid is wasted upon men

Who to themselves are false.

But these are things

Of which I speak, only as they were storm

Or sunshine to my individual mind,

No further. Let me then relate that now —

In some sort seeing with my proper eyes

That Liberty, and Life, and Death would soon

To the remotest corners of the land

Lie in the arbitrement of those who ruled

The capital City; what was struggled for,

And by what combatants victory must be won;

The indecision on their part whose aim

Seemed best, and the straightforward path of those

Who in attack or in defence were strong

Through their impiety — my inmost soul

Was agitated; yea, I could almost

Have prayed that throughout earth upon all men,

By patient exercise of reason made

Worthy of liberty, all spirits filled

With zeal expanding in Truth's holy light,

The gift of tongues might fall, and power arrive

From the four quarters of the winds to do

For France, what without help she could not do,

A work of honour; think not that to this

I added, work of safety: from all doubt

Or trepidation for the end of things

Far was I, far as angels are from guilt.

Yet did I grieve, nor only grieved, but thought

Of opposition and of remedies:

An insignificant stranger and obscure,

And one, moreover, little graced with power

Of eloquence even in my native speech,

And all unfit for tumult or intrigue,

Yet would I at this time with willing heart

Have undertaken for a cause so great

Service however dangerous. I revolved,

How much the destiny of Man had still

Hung upon single persons; that there was,

Transcendent to all local patrimony,

One nature, as there is one sun in heaven;

That objects, even as they are great, thereby

Do come within the reach of humblest eyes;

That Man is only weak through his mistrust

And want of hope where evidence divine

Proclaims to him that hope should be most sure;

Nor did the inexperience of my youth

Preclude conviction, that a spirit strong,

In hope, and trained to noble aspirations,

A spirit thoroughly faithful to itself,

Is for Society's unreasoning herd

A domineering instinct, serves at once

For way and guide, a fluent receptacle

That gathers up each petty straggling rill

And vein of water, glad to be rolled on

In safe obedience; that a mind, whose rest

Is where it ought to be, in self-restraint,

In circumspection and simplicity,

Falls rarely in entire discomfiture

Below its aim, or meets with, from without,

A treachery that foils it or defeats;

And, lastly, if the means on human will,

Frail human will, dependent should betray

Him who too boldly trusted them, I felt

That‘ mid the loud distractions of the world

A sovereign voice subsists within the soul,

Arbiter undisturbed of right and wrong,

Of life and death, in majesty severe

Enjoining, as may best promote the aims

Of truth and justice, either sacrifice,

From whatsoever region of our cares

Or our infirm affections Nature pleads,

Earnest and blind, against the stern decree.

On the other side, I called to mind those truths

That are the common-places of the schools —

( A theme for boys, too hackneyed for their sires,)

Yet, with a revelation's liveliness,

In all their comprehensive bearings known

And visible to philosophers of old,

Men who, to business of the world untrained,

Lived in the shade; and to Harmodius known

And his compeer Aristogiton, known

To Brutus — that tyrannic power is weak,

Hath neither gratitude, nor faith, nor love,

Nor the support of good or evil men

To trust in; that the godhead which is ours

Can never utterly be charmed or stilled;

That nothing hath a natural right to last

But equity and reason; that all else

Meets foes irreconcilable, and at best

Lives only by variety of disease.

Well might my wishes be intense, my thoughts

Strong and perturbed, not doubting at that time

But that the virtue of one paramount mind

Would have abashed those impious crests — have quelled

Outrage and bloody power, and, in despite

Of what the People long had been and were

Through ignorance and false teaching, sadder proof

Of immaturity, and in the teeth

Of desperate opposition from without —

Have cleared a passage for just government,

And left a solid birthright to the State,

Redeemed, according to example given

By ancient lawgivers.

In this frame of mind,

Dragged by a chain of harsh necessity,

So seemed it,— now I thankfully acknowledge,

Forced by the gracious providence of Heaven,—

To England I returned, else ( though assured

That I both was and must be of small weight,

No better than a landsman on the deck

Of a ship struggling with a hideous storm )

Doubtless, I should have then made common cause

With some who perished; haply perished too,

A poor mistaken and bewildered offering,—

Should to the breast of Nature have gone back,

With all my resolutions, all my hopes,

A Poet only to myself, to men

Useless, and even, beloved Friend! a soul

To thee unknown!

Twice had the trees let fall

Their leaves, as often Winter had put on

His hoary crown, since I had seen the surge

Beat against Albion's shore, since ear of mine

Had caught the accents of my native speech

Upon our native country's sacred ground.

A patriot of the world, how could I glide

Into communion with her sylvan shades,

Erewhile my tuneful haunt? It pleased me more

To abide in the great City, where I found

The general air still busy with the stir

Of that first memorable onset made

By a strong levy of humanity

Upon the traffickers in Negro blood;

Effort which, though defeated, had recalled

To notice old forgotten principles,

And through the nation spread a novel heat

Of virtuous feeling. For myself, I own

That this particular strife had wanted power

To rivet my affections; nor did now

Its unsuccessful issue much excite

My sorrow; for I brought with me the faith

That, if France prospered, good men would not long

Pay fruitless worship to humanity,

And this most rotten branch of human shame,

Object, so seemed it, of superfluous pains,

Would fall together with its parent tree.

What, then, were my emotions, when in arms

Britain put forth her free-born strength in league,

Oh, pity and shame! with those confederate Powers!

Not in my single self alone I found,

But in the minds of all ingenuous youth,

Change and subversion from that hour. No shock

Given to my moral nature had I known

Down to that very moment; neither lapse

Nor turn of sentiment that might be named

A revolution, save at this one time;

All else was progress on the self-same path

On which, with a diversity of pace,

I had been travelling: this a stride at once

Into another region. As a light

And pliant harebell, swinging in the breeze

On some grey rock — its birth-place — so had I

Wantoned, fast rooted on the ancient tower

Of my beloved country, wishing not

A happier fortune than to wither there:

Now was I from that pleasant station torn

And tossed about in whirlwind. I rejoiced,

Yea, afterwards — truth most painful to record!—

Exulted, in the triumph of my soul,

When Englishmen by thousands were o'erthrown,

Left without glory on the field, or driven,

Brave hearts! to shameful flight. It was a grief,—

Grief call it not,‘ twas anything but that,—

A conflict of sensations without name,

Of which he only, who may love the sight

Of a village steeple, as I do, can judge,

When, in the congregation bending all

To their great Father, prayers were offered up,

Or praises for our country's victories;

And,‘ mid the simple worshippers, perchance

I only, like an uninvited guest

Whom no one owned, sate silent; shall I add,

Fed on the day of vengeance yet to come.

Oh! much have they to account for, who could tear,

By violence, at one decisive rent,

From the best youth in England their dear pride,

Their joy, in England; this, too, at a time

In which worst losses easily might wean

The best of names, when patriotic love

Did of itself in modesty give way,

Like the Precursor when the Deity

Is come Whose harbinger he was; a time

In which apostasy from ancient faith

Seemed but conversion to a higher creed;

Withal a season dangerous and wild,

A time when sage Experience would have snatched

Flowers out of any hedge-row to compose

A chaplet in contempt of his grey locks.

When the proud fleet that bears the red-cross flag

In that unworthy service was prepared

To mingle, I beheld the vessels lie,

A brood of gallant creatures, on the deep;

I saw them in their rest, a sojourner

Through a whole month of calm and glassy days

In that delightful island which protects

Their place of convocation — there I heard,

Each evening, pacing by the still sea-shore,

A monitory sound that never failed,—

The sunset cannon. While the orb went down

In the tranquillity of nature, came

That voice, ill requiem! seldom heard by me

Without a spirit overcast by dark

Imaginations, sense of woes to come,

Sorrow for human kind, and pain of heart.

In France, the men, who, for their desperate ends,

Had plucked up mercy by the roots, were glad

Of this new enemy. Tyrants, strong before

In wicked pleas, were strong as demons now;

And thus, on every side beset with foes,

The goaded land waxed mad; the crimes of few

Spread into madness of the many; blasts

From hell came sanctified like airs from heaven.

The sternness of the just, the faith of those

Who doubted not that Providence had times

Of vengeful retribution, theirs who throned

The human Understanding paramount

And made of that their God, the hopes of men

Who were content to barter short-lived pangs

For a paradise of ages, the blind rage

Of insolent tempers, the light vanity

Of intermeddlers, steady purposes

Of the suspicious, slips of the indiscreet,

And all the accidents of life were pressed

Into one service, busy with one work.

The Senate stood aghast, her prudence quenched,

Her wisdom stifled, and her justice scared,

Her frenzy only active to extol

Past outrages, and shape the way for new,

Which no one dared to oppose or mitigate.

Domestic carnage now filled the whole year

With feast-days; old men from the chimney-nook,

The maiden from the bosom of her love,

The mother from the cradle of her babe,

The warrior from the field — all perished, all —

Friends, enemies, of all parties, ages, ranks,

Head after head, and never heads enough

For those that bade them fall. They found their joy,

They made it proudly, eager as a child,

( If like desires of innocent little ones

May with such heinous appetites be compared,)

Pleased in some open field to exercise

A toy that mimics with revolving wings

The motion of a wind-mill; though the air

Do of itself blow fresh, and make the vanes

Spin in his eyesight, that contents him not,

But, with the plaything at arm's length, he sets

His front against the blast, and runs amain,

That it may whirl the faster.

Amid the depth

Of those enormities, even thinking minds

Forgot, at seasons, whence they had their being;

Forgot that such a sound was ever heard

As Liberty upon earth: yet all beneath

Her innocent authority was wrought,

Nor could have been, without her blessed name.

The illustrious wife of Roland, in the hour

Of her composure, felt that agony,

And gave it vent in her last words. O Friend!

It was a lamentable time for man,

Whether a hope had e'er been his or not;

A woful time for them whose hopes survived

The shock; most woful for those few who still

Were flattered, and had trust in human kind:

They had the deepest feeling of the grief.

Meanwhile the Invaders fared as they deserved:

The Herculean Commonwealth had put forth her arms,

And throttled with an infant godhead's might

The snakes about her cradle; that was well,

And as it should be; yet no cure for them

Whose souls were sick with pain of what would be

Hereafter brought in charge against mankind.

Most melancholy at that time, O Friend!

Were my day-thoughts,— my nights were miserable;

Through months, through years, long after the last beat

Of those atrocities, the hour of sleep

To me came rarely charged with natural gifts,

Such ghastly visions had I of despair

And tyranny, and implements of death;

And innocent victims sinking under fear,

And momentary hope, and worn-out prayer,

Each in his separate cell, or penned in crowds

For sacrifice, and struggling with fond mirth

And levity in dungeons, where the dust

Was laid with tears. Then suddenly the scene

Changed, and the unbroken dream entangled me

In long orations, which I strove to plead

Before unjust tribunals,— with a voice

Labouring, a brain confounded, and a sense,

Death-like, of treacherous desertion, felt

In the last place of refuge — my own soul.

When I began in youth's delightful prime

To yield myself to Nature, when that strong

And holy passion overcame me first,

Nor day nor night, evening or morn, was free

From its oppression. But, O Power Supreme!

Without Whose call this world would cease to breathe,

Who from the fountain of Thy grace dost fill

The veins that branch through every frame of life,

Making man what he is, creature divine,

In single or in social eminence,

Above the rest raised infinite ascents

When reason that enables him to be

Is not sequestered — what a change is here!

How different ritual for this after-worship,

What countenance to promote this second love!

The first was service paid to things which lie

Guarded within the bosom of Thy will.

Therefore to serve was high beatitude;

Tumult was therefore gladness, and the fear

Ennobling, venerable; sleep secure,

And waking thoughts more rich than happiest dreams.

But as the ancient Prophets, borne aloft

In vision, yet constrained by natural laws

With them to take a troubled human heart,

Wanted not consolations, nor a creed

Of reconcilement, then when they denounced,

On towns and cities, wallowing in the abyss

Of their offences, punishment to come;

Or saw, like other men, with bodily eyes,

Before them, in some desolated place,

The wrath consummate and the threat fulfilled;

So, with devout humility be it said,

So, did a portion of that spirit fall

On me uplifted from the vantage-ground

Of pity and sorrow to a state of being

That through the time's exceeding fierceness saw

Glimpses of retribution, terrible,

And in the order of sublime behests:

But, even if that were not, amid the awe

Of unintelligible chastisement,

Not only acquiescences of faith

Survived, but daring sympathies with power,

Motions not treacherous or profane, else why

Within the folds of no ungentle breast

Their dread vibration to this hour prolonged?

Wild blasts of music thus could find their way

Into the midst of turbulent events;

So that worst tempests might be listened to.

Then was the truth received into my heart,

That, under heaviest sorrow earth can bring,

If from the affliction somewhere do not grow

Honour which could not else have been, a faith,

An elevation and a sanctity,

If new strength be not given nor old restored,

The blame is ours, not Nature's. When a taunt

Was taken up by scoffers in their pride,

Saying, “Behold the harvest that we reap

From popular government and equality,”

I clearly saw that neither these nor aught

Of wild belief engrafted on their names

By false philosophy had caused the woe,

But a terrific reservoir of guilt

And ignorance rilled up from age to age,

That could no longer hold its loathsome charge,

But burst and spread in deluge through the land.

And as the desert hath green spots, the sea

Small islands scattered amid stormy waves,

So that disastrous period did not want

Bright sprinklings of all human excellence,

To which the silver wands of saints in Heaven

Might point with rapturous joy. Yet not the less,

For those examples in no age surpassed

Of fortitude and energy and love,

And human nature faithful to herself

Under worst trials, was I driven to think

Of the glad times when first I traversed France

A youthful pilgrim; above all reviewed

That eventide, when under windows bright

With happy faces and with garlands hung,

And through a rainbow-arch that spanned the street,

Triumphal pomp for liberty confirmed,

I paced, a dear companion at my side,

The town of Arras, whence with promise high

Issued, on delegation to sustain

Humanity and right, that Robespierre,

He who thereafter, and in how short time!

Wielded the sceptre of the Atheist crew.

When the calamity spread far and wide —

And this same city, that did then appear

To outrun the rest in exultation, groaned

Under the vengeance of her cruel son,

As Lear reproached the winds — I could almost

Have quarrelled with that blameless spectacle

For lingering yet an image in my mind

To mock me under such a strange reverse.

O Friend! few happier moments have been mine

Than that which told the downfall of this Tribe

So dreaded, so abhorred. The day deserves

A separate record. Over the smooth sands

Of Leven's ample estuary lay

My journey, and beneath a genial sun,

With distant prospect among gleams of sky

And clouds, and intermingling mountain tops,

In one inseparable glory clad,

Creatures of one ethereal substance met

In consistory, like a diadem

Or crown of burning seraphs as they sit

In the empyrean. Underneath that pomp

Celestial, lay unseen the pastoral vales

Among whose happy fields I had grown up

From childhood. On the fulgent spectacle,

That neither passed away nor changed, I gazed

Enrapt; but brightest things are wont to draw

Sad opposites out of the inner heart,

As even their pensive influence drew from mine.

How could it otherwise? for not in vain

That very morning had I turned aside

To seek the ground where,‘ mid a throng of graves,

An honoured teacher of my youth was laid,

And on the stone were graven by his desire

Lines from the churchyard elegy of Gray.

This faithful guide, speaking from his death-bed,

Added no farewell to his parting counsel,

But said to me, “My head will soon lie low;”

And when I saw the turf that covered him,

After the lapse of full eight years, those words,

With sound of voice and countenance of the Man,

Came back upon me, so that some few tears

Fell from me in my own despite. But now

I thought, still traversing that widespread plain,

With tender pleasure of the verses graven

Upon his tombstone, whispering to myself:

He loved the Poets, and, if now alive,

Would have loved me, as one not destitute

Of promise, nor belying the kind hope

That he had formed, when I, at his command,

Began to spin, with toil, my earliest songs.

As I advanced, all that I saw or felt

Was gentleness and peace. Upon a small

And rocky island near, a fragment stood

( Itself like a sea rock ) the low remains

( With shells encrusted, dark with briny weeds )

Of a dilapidated structure, once

A Romish chapel, where the vested priest

Said matins at the hour that suited those

Who crossed the sands with ebb of morning tide.

Not far from that still ruin all the plain

Lay spotted with a variegated crowd

Of vehicles and travellers, horse and foot,

Wading beneath the conduct of their guide

In loose procession through the shallow stream

Of inland waters; the great sea meanwhile

Heaved at safe distance, far retired. I paused,

Longing for skill to paint a scene so bright

And cheerful, but the foremost of the band

As he approached, no salutation given

In the familiar language of the day,

Cried, “Robespierre is dead!” — nor was a doubt,

After strict question, left within my mind

That he and his supporters all were fallen.

Great was my transport, deep my gratitude

To everlasting Justice, by this fiat

Made manifest. “Come now, ye golden times,”

Said I forth-pouring on those open sands

A hymn of triumph: “as the morning comes

From out the bosom of the night, come ye:

Thus far our trust is verified; behold!

They who with clumsy desperation brought

A river of Blood, and preached that nothing else

Could cleanse the Augean stable, by the might

Of their own helper have been swept away;

Their madness stands declared and visible;

Elsewhere will safety now be sought, and earth

March firmly towards righteousness and peace.” —

Then schemes I framed more calmly, when and how

The madding factions might be tranquillised,

And how through hardships manifold and long

The glorious renovation would proceed.

Thus interrupted by uneasy bursts

Of exultation, I pursued my way

Along that very shore which I had skimmed

In former days, when — spurring from the Vale

Of Nightshade, and St. Mary's mouldering fane,

And the stone abbot, after circuit made

In wantonness of heart, a joyous band

Of school-boys hastening to their distant home

Along the margin of the moonlight sea —

We beat with thundering hoofs the level sand.