VOICE (from behind the Scene).

Make room for the Lieutenant-General!

Merciless man!

Thus to abuse the orders of thy Lord—

And stain thy Emperor's holy name with murder, With bloody, most accursed assassination?

BUTLER (calmly).

I've but fulfilled the Emperor's own sentence.

O curse of Kings,

OCTAVIO,

Infusing a dread life into their words,

And linking to the sudden transient thought
The unchangeable irrevocable deed.
Was there necessity for such an eager
Despatch? Couldst thou not grant the merciful
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!

BUTLER.

For what Rail you against me? What is my offence? The Empire from a fearful enemy Have I deliver'd, and expect reward. The single difference betwixt you Is this you placed the arrow in the bow;

and me

collects herself, and retires suddenly.

VOICE (from behind the Scene).

Keep back the people! Guard the door!

SCENE IX.

To these enters OCTAVIO PICCOLOMINI with all his Train. At the same time DEVEREUX and MACDONALD enter from out the Corridor with the Halberdiers.-WALLENSTEIN'S dead Body is carried over the back part of the Stage, wrapped in a piece of crimson tapestry. OCTAVIO (entering abruptly).

It must not be! It is not possible!
Butler! Gordon!

I'll not believe it. Say no!

[GORDON, without answering, points with his hand to the Body of WALLENSTEIN as it is carried over the back of the Stage. OCTAVIO looks that way, and stands overpowered with horror.

The evil destiny surprised my brother

Too suddenly he could not think on them.

OCTAVIO.

Speak not of vengeance! Speak not of maltreatment!
The Emperor is appeased; the heavy fault
Hath heavily been expiated-nothing
Descended from the father to the daughter,
Except his glory and his services.
The Empress honours your adversity,
Takes part in your afflictions, opens to you
Her motherly arms! Therefore no farther fears;
Yield yourself up in hope and confidence
To the Imperial Grace!

COUNTESS (with her eye raised to heaven).
To the grace and mercy of a greater Master
Do I yield up myself. Where shall the body
Of the Duke have its place of final rest?
In the Chartreuse, which he himself did found
At Gitschin, rest the Countess Wallenstein;
And by her side, to whom he was indebted
For his first fortunes, gratefully he wish'd
He might sometime repose in death! O let him
Be buried there. And likewise, for my husband's
Remains, I ask the like grace. The Emperor
Is now proprietor of all our Castles.

This sure may well be granted us-one sepulchre
Beside the sepulchres of our forefathers!

[He reads the Address, and delivers the letter to 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.)

DEDICATION.

TO H. MARTIN, ESQ.

OF JESUS COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.

DEAR SIR, ACCEPT, as a small testimony of my grateful attachment, the following Dramatic Poem, in which I have endeavoured to detail, in an interesting form, the fall of a man, whose great bad actions have cast a disastrous lustre on his name. In the execution of the work, as intricacy of plot could not have been attempted without a gross violation of recent facts, it has been my sole aim to imitate the impassioned and highly figurative language of the French Orators, and to develop the characters of the chief actors on a vast stage of hor

rors.

Yours fraternally,

S. T. COLERIDGE.

JESUS COLLEGE, September 22, 1794.

THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE.

ACT I.

SCENE, The Tuilleries.

BARRERE.

The tempest gathers—be it mine to seek
A friendly shelter, ere it bursts upon him.
But where? and how? I fear the Tyrant's sou!-

Sudden in action, fertile in resource,
And rising awful 'mid impending ruins;
In splendour gloomy, as the midnight meteor,
That fearless thwarts the clemental war.

When last in secret conference we met,
He scowl'd upon me with suspicious rage,
Making his 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!

[Exit.

Myself! the steel-strong Rectitude of soul
And Poverty sublime 'mid circling virtues!
The giant Victories, my counsels form'd,
Shall stalk around me with sun-glittering plumes,
Bidding the darts of calumny fall pointless.
[Exeunt cæteri. Manet COUтHON.
COUTHON (Solus).

So we deceive ourselves! What goodly virtues
Bloom on the poisonous branches of ambition!
Still, Robespierre! thou 'It guard thy country's freedom
To despotize in all the patriot's pomp.
While Conscience, 'mid the mob's applauding clamours,
Sleeps in thine ear, nor whispers-blood-stain'd tyrant!
Yet what is Conscience? Superstition's dream,
Making such deep impression on our sleep-
That long th' awaken'd breast retains its horrors!
But he returns-and with him comes Barrere.

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 rendered 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?

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 Massacre 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!

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 cottaged vale she dwells,
List'ning to the Sabbath bells!
Still around her steps are seen
Spotless honour's meeker mien,
Love, the fire of pleasing fears,
Sorrow smiling through her tears;
And, conscious of the past employ,
Memory, bosom-spring of joy.

TALLIEN.

I thank thee, Adelaide! 't was 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 wrongThy soul distemper'd, can my heart be tranquil?

TALLIEN.

Tell me, by whom thy brother's blood was spilt?
Asks he not vengeance on these patriot murderers?
It has been borne too tamely. Fears and curses
Groan on our midnight beds, and e'en our dreams
Threaten the assassin hand of Robespierre.
He dies!-nor has the plot escaped his fears.

ADELAIDE.

Yet-yet-be cautious! much I fear the Commune-
The tyrant's creatures, and their fate with his
Fast link'd in close indissoluble union.
The Pale Convention-

TALLIEN.

Hate him as they fear him, Impatient of the chain, resolved and ready.

ADELAIDE.

Th' enthusiast mob, confusion's lawless sons

TALLIEN.

They are aweary of his stern morality,
The fair-mask'd offspring of ferocious pride.
The sections too support the delegates :
All-all is ours! e'en now the vital air
Of Liberty, condensed awhile, is bursting
(Force irresistible!) from its compressure-
To shatter the arch-chemist in the explosion!

SCENE.-The Convention.
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 thee I call-

Thou know'st me faithful, know'st 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 hurl'd down
Hebert and Rousin, and the villain friends
Of Danton, foul apostate! those, who long
Mask'd treason's form in liberty's fair garb,