« 이전계속 »
Your hand is pure.
You have PAGE (from the Gallery).
Avail'd yourself of mine. O piteous sight!
Thus to abuse the orders of thy Lord
And stain thy Emperor's holy name with murder,
With bloody, most accursed assassination ?
[The Countess stands motionless. O curse of Kings,
And linking to the sudden transient thought
The unchangeable irrevocable deed.
A time for mercy ? Time is man's good Angel.
To leave no interval between the sentence,
And the fulfilment of it, doth beseem
God only, the immutable!
Heaven forbid !
Rail you against me? What is my offence?
That way! The lower Have I deliver'd, and expect reward.
The single difference betwixt you and me voice (from behind the Scene).
Is this : you placed the arrow in the bow; Make room for the Lieutenant-General!
I pulld the string. You sow'd blood, and yet stand [At these words the Countess starts from her stupor, Astonishi'd that blood is come up. I always collects herself, and retires suddenly.
Knew what I did, and therefore no result
Hath power to frighten or surprise my spirit.
Have you auglit else to order; for this instant
I make my best speed to Vienda; place
My bleeding sword before my Emperor's Throne,
And hope to gain the applause which undelaying
[Exit BUTLER. from out the Corridor with the Halberdiers.-WALLENSTEIN's dead body is carried over the back part of
SCENE X. the Stage, wrapped in a piece of crimson tapestry. Octavio (entering abruptly).
To these enter the COUNTESS TERTSKY, pale and disorIt must not be! It is not possible!
dered. Her utterance is slow and feeble, and unimButler! Gordon !
passioned. I'll not believe it. Say no!
OCTAVIO (meeting her). [Gordon, without answering, points with his hand to O Countess Tertsky! These are the results
the Body of WALLENSTEIN as it is carried over the Of luckless unblest deeds. back of the Stage. Octavio looks that way,
and stands overpowered with horror.
They are the fruits
Of your contrivances. The Duke is dead,
My husband too is dead, the Duchess struggles
In the pangs of death, my niece has disappeard.
This house of splendour, and of princely glory,
Doth now stand desolated : the affrighted servants
Rush forth through all its doors. I am the last flath the sole power to issue orders.
Therein; I shut it up, and here deliver (Devereux and MacDonald retire with marks of The keys. obeisance. One drops away after the other,
OCTAVIO (with a deep anguish). till only BUTLER, OCTAVIo, and GORDON remain
O Countess! my house too is desolate.
Who next is to be murder'd? Who is next
To be maltreated ? Lo! the Duke is dead. O God of Justice!
The Emperor's vengeance may be pacified ! To thee I lift my hand! I am not guilty
Spare the old servants ; let not their fidelity Of this foul deed.
Be imputed to the faithful as a crime
More worthily of me, than to believe
The evil destiny surprised my brother
COUNTEss (with her eye raised to heaven).
and speaks with energy and dignity).
Help! Help! Support her!
Nay, it is too late.
What is this?
Octavio with a look of reproach, and with an
emphasis on the word. To the Prince Piccolomini. [Octavio with his whole frame expressive of sudden anguish, raises his eyes to heaven.
(The Curtain drops.)
SCENE, The Tuilleries. Accept, as a small testimony of my grateful attachment, the following Dramatic Poem, in which I have endea
BARRERE, voured to detail, in an interesting form, the fall of a man, whose great bad actions have cast a disastrous The tempest gathers--be it mine to seek lustre on his name. In the cxecution of the work, as
A friendly shelter, ere it bursts upon him.
But where? and how? I fear the Tyrant's soulintricacy of plot could not have been attempted with
Sudden in action, fertile in resource, out a gross violation of recent facts, it has been
sole aim to imitate the impassioned and highly figurative
And rising awful 'mid impending ruins; language of the French Orators, and to develop the In splendour gloomy, as the midnight meteor,
That fearless thwarts the elemental war. characters of the chief actors on a vast stage of hor
When last in secret conference we met,
He scowld upon me with suspicious rage,
Making liis eye the inmate of my bosom.
I know he scorns me—and I feel, I hate him--
Yet there is in him that which makes me tremble ! Jesus COLLEGE, September 22, 1794
And shall I dread the soft luxurious Tallien ?
Th' Adonis Tallien? banquet-hunting Tallien?
Him, whose heart flutters at the dice-box? Ilim,
Resigns his head impure to feverish slumbers !
I cannot fear him-yet we must not scorn him.
Th' Adonis, banquet-hunting Antony?
The stream runs clear, yet at the bottom lies
The thick black sediment of all the factions
It needs no magic hand to stir it up!
O we did wrong to spare them---fatal error! E'en as the sudden breeze upstarting onwards
Why lived Legendre, when that Danton died ? Hurries the thunder-cloud, that poised awhile
And Collot d'Herbois dangerous in crimes? Hung in mid air, red with its mutinous burthen. I've fear'd bim, since his iron heart endured LEGENDRE
To make of Lyons one vast human shambles, Perfidious Traitor!--still afraid to bask
Compared with which the sun-scorch'd wilderness
Of Zara were a smiling paradise.
Rightly thou judgest, Couthon! He is one,
Seeking forgetful peace amid the jar
Of elements. The howl of maniac uproar To all attach'd, by turns deserting all,
Lulls to sad sleep the memory of himself. Cunning and dark-a necessary villain !
A calm is fatal to him—then he feels
The dire upboilings of the storm within him. Yet much depends upon him-well you know
A tiger mad with inward wounds !--I dread
The fierce and restless turbulence of guilt.
Shall they behold to-morrow's sun roll westward.
Nay-I am sick of blood; my aching heart
Reviews the long, long train of hideous horrors We'll show enough to rouse his watchful fears, That still have gloom'd the rise of the republic. Till the cold coward blaze a patriot.
I should have died before Toulon, when war O Danton! murder'd friend! assist my counsels
Became the patriot! Hover around me on sad memory's wings,
ROBESPIERRE. And pour thy daring vengeance in my heart.
Most unworthy wish! Tallien! if but lo-morrow's fateful sun
He, whose heart sickens at the blood of traitors, Beholds the Tyrant living-we are dead !
Would be himself a traitor, were he not
A coward! 'T is congenial souls alone Yet his keen eye that taslies mighty meanings
Shed tears of sorrow for cach other's fate.
O thou arı brave, my brother! and thine eye Fear not-or rather fear th' alternative,
Full firmly shines amid the groaning batileAnd seek for courage e'en in cowardice.
Yet in thine heart the woman-form of pity But see-hither he comes – let us away!
Asserts too large a share, an ill-timed guest! His brother with him, and the bloody Couthon,
There is unsoundness in the state-To-morrow And high of haughty spirit, young St-Just.
Shall see it cleansed by wholesome massacre ! (Excunt.
Beware! already do the sections murmurEnter ROBESPIERRE, Cournon, Sr-Just, and ROBES
« O the great glorious patriot, Robespierre-
The tyrant guardian of the country's freedom!.
'T were folly sure to work great deeds by halves ! And did I conquer Roland's spotless virtues ?
Much I suspect the darksome fickle heart
Of cold Barrere!
I see the villain in him!
ROBESPIERRE JUNIOR. Vain, as a dream of murder, at my bosom?
If he-if all forsake thee-what remains ?
ROBESPIERRE. Myself! the steel-strong Rectitude of soul
There are who wish my ruin— but I'll make them And Poverty sublime 'mid circling virtues !
Blush for the crime in blood!
Nay-hut I tell thee, Bidding the darts of calumny fall pointless.
Thou art too fond of slaughter-and the right
Self-centering Fear! how well thou canst ape Mercy!
Tho'ight Barrere so, when through the streaming streets While Conscience, 'mid the mob's applauding clamours, of Paris red-eyed Massacre o'er-wearied Sleeps in thine ear, nor whispers-blood-stain'd tyrant! Reel'd heavily, intoxicate with blood ? Yet what is Conscience? Superstition's dream, And when (O heavens!) in Lyons' death-red square Making such deep impression on our sleep
Sick fancy groan'd o'er putrid bills of slain, That long th' awakeu'd breast retains its horrors!
Didst thou not fiercely laugh, and bless the day? But he returns-and with him comes Barrere.
Why, thou hast been the mouth-piece of all horrors,
Aloof thou standest from the tottering pillar,
Or, like a frighted child behind its mother,
Hidest thy palc face in the skirts of — Mercy! There is no danger but in cowardice.
BARRERE, Barrere! we make the danger, when we fear it.
O prodigality of eloquent anger! We have such force without, as will suspend
Why now I see thou 'rt weak-thy case is desperate ! The cold and trembling treachery of these members.
The cool ferocious Robespierre turn d scolder!
Who from a bad man's bosom wards the blow
Reserves the whelted dagger for his own.
Denounced twice--and twice I saved his life!
[Exit. Gathering its strength anew. The dastard traitors! Moles, that would undermine the rooted oak!
The sections will support then-there 's the point? A pause!-a moment's pause! —'T is all their life.
No! he can never weather out the storm
Yet he is sudden in revenge-No more! Yet much they talk-and plausible their speech. I must away to Tallien.
(Exit. Couthon's decree has given such powers,
SCENE changes to the house of AdelaidE.
Didst thou present the letter that I gave thee!
he would soon return?
[Returns the letter.
BARRERE. The freedom of debate
Thou didst rightly.
Are the sections friendly?
Enter BillaUD VARENNES and BOURDON L'OISE.
(Soft Music). Enter TALLIEN.
TALLIEN Music, my
love? O breathe again that air ! Soft nurse of pain, it soothes the
soul Of care, sweet as the whisperd breeze of evening That plays around the sick man's throbbing temples.
Enter BARRERE abruptly.
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 cottaged vale she dwells,
Say, are ye friends to freedom ? I am her's!
I thank thee, Adelaide! 't was sweet, though mournful.
Yet-yet—be cautious! much I fear the Commune,
ROBESPIERRE (mounts the Tribune). Once more befits it that the voice of truth, Fearless in innocence, though leaguer'd round By envy and her hateful brood of hell, Be heard amid this hall, once more befits The patriot, whose prophetic eye so oft Has pierced through faction's veil, to flash on crimes Of deadliest import. Mouldering in the grave Sleeps Capet's caitiff corse; my daring hand Levell'd to earth his blood-cemented throne, My voice declared his guilt, and stirr'd up France To call for vengeance. I too dug the grave Where sleep the Girondists, detested band ! Long with the show of freedom they abused Her ardent sons. Long time the well-turn'd phrase, The high fraught sentence, and the lofty tone Of declamation, thunder'd in this hall, Till reason 'midst a labyrinth of words Perplex'd, in silence seem'd to yield assent. I durst oppose. Soul of my honoured friend! Spirit of Marat, upon thec I callThou know'st me faithful, knowost with what warm zeal I urged the cause of justice, stripp'd the mask From faction's deadly visage, and destroy'd Her traitor brood. Whose patriot arm hurld down Hebert and Rousin, and the villain friends Of Danlon, foul apostate! those, who long Mask'd treason's form in liberty's fair garb,
Hate him as they fear him, Impatient of the chain, resolved and ready.
Of Liberty, condensed awhile, is bursting | (Force irresistible!) from its compressure
To shatter the arch-chemist in the explosion !