The Literary Remains of Samuel Taylor Coleridge - novelonlinefull.com
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Moles, that would undermine the rooted oak!
A pause!--a moment's pause!--'Tis all their life.
BARRERE.
Yet much they talk--and plausible their speech.
Couthon's decree has given such powers, that--
ROBESPIERRE.
That what?
BARRERE.
The freedom of debate--
ROBESPIERRE.
Transparent mask!
They wish to clog the wheels of government, Forcing the hand that guides the vast machine To bribe them to their duty.--English patriots!
Are not the congregated clouds of war Black all around us? In our very vitals Works not the king-bred poison of rebellion?
Say, what shall counteract the selfish plottings Of wretches, cold of heart, nor awed by fears Of him, whose power directs th' eternal justice?
Terror? or secret-sapping gold? The first.
Heavy, but transient as the ills that cause it; And to the virtuous patriot render'd light By the necessities that gave it birth: The other fouls the fount of the Republic, Making it flow polluted to all ages; Inoculates the state with a slow venom, That once imbibed, must be continued ever.
Myself incorruptible I ne'er could bribe them-- Therefore they hate me.
BARRERE.
Are the Sections friendly?
ROBESPIERRE.
There are who wish my ruin--but I'll make them Blush for the crime in blood!
BARRERE.
Nay--but I tell thee, Thou art too fond of slaughter--and the right (If right it be) workest by most foul means!
ROBESPIERRE.
Self-centering Fear! how well thou canst ape Mercy!
Too fond of slaughter!--matchless hypocrite!
Thought Barrere so, when Brissot, Danton died?
Thought Barrere so, when through the streaming streets Of Paris red-eyed Ma.s.sacre, o'er wearied, Reel'd heavily, intoxicate with blood?
And when (O heavens!) in Lyons' death-red square Sick fancy groan'd o'er putrid hills of slain, Didst thou not fiercely laugh, and bless the day?
Why, thou hast been the mouth-piece of all horrors, And, like a blood-hound, crouch'd for murder! Now Aloof thou standest from the tottering pillar, Or, like a frighted child behind its mother, Hidest thy pale face in the skirts of--Mercy!
BARRERE.
O prodigality of eloquent anger!
Why now I see thou'rt weak--thy case is desperate!
The cool ferocious Robespierre turn'd scolder!
ROBESPIERRE.
Who from a bad man's bosom wards the blow, Reserves the whetted dagger for his own.
Denounced twice--and twice I sav'd his life!
[Exit.]
BARRERE.
The Sections will support them--there's the point!
No! he can never weather out the storm-- Yet he is sudden in revenge--No more!
I must away to Tallien.
[Exit.]
[SCENE changes to the House of Adelaide. ADELAIDE enters, speaking to a Servant.]
ADELAIDE.
Didst thou present the letter that I gave thee?
Did Tallien answer, he would soon return?
SERVANT.
He is in the Tuilleries--with him, Legendre-- In deep discourse they seem'd: as I approach'd He waved his hand, as bidding me retire: I did not interrupt him.
[Returns the letter.]
ADELAIDE.
Thou didst rightly.
[Exit Servant.]
O this new freedom! at how dear a price We've bought the seeming good! The peaceful virtues And every blandishment of private life, The father's cares, the mother's fond endearment, All sacrificed to liberty's wild riot.
The winged hours, that scatter'd roses round me, Languid and sad drag their slow course along, And shake big gall-drops from their heavy wings.
But I will steal away these anxious thoughts By the soft languishment of warbled airs, If haply melodies may lull the sense Of sorrow for a while.
[Soft Music.]
[Enter TALLIEN.]
TALLIEN.
Music, my love? O breathe again that air!
Soft nurse of pain, it soothes the weary soul Of care, sweet as the whisper'd breeze of evening That plays around the sick man's throbbing temples.
SONG.
Tell me, on what holy ground May domestic peace be found?
Halcyon daughter of the skies, Far on fearful wing she flies, From the pomp of sceptred state, From the rebel's noisy hate.
In a cottag'd vale she dwells, List'ning to the Sabbath bells!
Still around her steps are seen Spotless honour's meeker mien, Love, the sire of pleasing fears, Sorrow smiling through her tears, And conscious of the past employ, Memory, bosom-spring of joy.
TALLIEN.
I thank thee, Adelaide! 'twas sweet, though mournful.
But why thy brow o'ercast, thy cheek so wan?
Thou look'st as a lorn maid beside some stream, That sighs away the soul in fond despairing, While sorrow sad, like the dank willow near her, Hangs o'er the troubled fountain of her eye.
ADELAIDE.
Ah! rather let me ask what mystery lowers On Tallien's darken'd brow. Thou dost me wrong-- Thy soul distemper'd, can my heart be tranquil?
