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1793.6
A Fragment, Supposed to be Written near the Temple,
On the Night Before the Murder of Louis the Sixteenth
"Mrs. Robinson"
[Mary Robinson][1]
The European Magazine, XXIII (April 1793), pp. 313-314
The Scots Magazine, IV (April 1793), p. 192
Now Midnight spreads her sable vest
With starry rays light tissued o'er;
Now from the Desart's thistled breast
The chilling dews begin to soar;
The owl shrieks from the tott'ring tow'r,
Dread watch bird of the witching hour!
Spectres from their
charnel cells
Cleave the air with hideous
yells!
Not a glow-worm
ventures forth,
To gild his little
speck of earth!
In wild despair Creation seems to wait,
While Horror stalks abroad to deal the shafts of Fate!
To yonder damp and dreary
cave,
From black Oblivion's
silent wave,
Borne on Desolation's
wings,
Death his poison'd chalice
brings!
Wide beneath the turbid
sky
Red Rebellion's banners
fly,
Sweeping to her iron den
The agonizing hearts of
men:
There in many a ghastly
throng,
Blood-stain'd myriads
glide along,
While each above his crest a falchion rears,
Imbu'd with tepid gore, or drench'd in scalding tears!
Beneath yon tow'r (whose
grated cell
Entombs the fairest
child of earth,
August in misery as in
birth),
The troops of Pandemonium
dwell!
Night and day the fiends
conspire
To glut their desolating
ire!
Ire! that feeds on human
woe;
That smiling deals the
murd'rous blow!
And as the helpless victim
dies,
Fills with shouts the
threat'ning skies;
Nor trembles, lest the vengeful light'ning's glare
Should blast their recreant arms, and scatter them to air!
Round the deep entrenchments
stand
Bold Ambition's giant
band;
Beneath, insidious Malice
creeps.
And keen Revenge—that
never sleeps!
While dark Suspicion hovers
near,
Stung by the dastard
scorpion—Fear!
Reason, shrinking from
her gaze,
Flies the scene in wild
amaze!
While trembling Pity dies
to see
The barb'rous sons of
Anarchy
Drench their unnatural hands in regal blood,
While patriot Virtue sinks beneath the whelming flood.
Hark! the petrifying
shriek
Issues from yon turret
bleak!
The lofty tower returns
the sound,
Echoing through its base
profound!
The rising Moon with paly
light
Faintly greets the aching
sight
With many a gliding centinel,
Whose shadow would his
sense appall!
Whose soul convuls'd with
conscious woe,
Pants for the morning's
purple glow—
The purple glow that cheers his breast,
And gives his startled mind a short-liv'd hour of rest.
But when shall morn's
effulgent light
The hopeless sufferer's
glance invite?
When shall the breath
of rosy day
Around the infant victims
play?
When will the vivifying
orb
The tears of widow'd
love absorb?
See! see! the palpitating
breast,
By all the weeping Graces
drest,
Now dumb with grief—now
raving wild,
Bending o'er each with'ring
child,
The only treasures spared by savage ire,
The fading shadows of their murdered sire.
Oh! Fancy, spread thy
pow'rful wing,
From Hell's polluted confines
spring—
Quit, quit the cell where
Madness lies!
With wounded breast and
starting eyes!
Ruthless fiends have done
their worst,
They triumph in the deed
accurs'd!
See her veil Oblivion
throws,
O'er the last of human
woes;
The royal stole, with
many a crimson stain,
Closes from every eye
the scene of pain,
While from afar the war song[2]
dins the ear,
And drowns the dying groan[3] which Angels weep to hear!