James and Mary Ford, eds. Every Day in the Year. 1902.
July 28The Death of Robespierre
By Henry Howard Brownell (18201872)
H
Alive with clinging thousands—what a scene!
And in the midst, above that sea of heads,
Glooms the black Guillotine.
When on men’s hearts the Arena feasted high—
While myriads of dark faces, void of pity,
Looked on to see them die.
The flexible brows and lips grimace and frown—
How the walls tremble to their shout, whene’er
That heavy steel comes down!
One after one, upon the block—while cheers
And yells and curses howled by hate untold
Rang in their dying ears.
Of angry sound from that great human Hive
They rear upright a dizened ghastly form,
Mangled, yet still alive.
His eyes unclose upon that living plain—
Those livid, snaky eyes!—he shuts them soon,
Never to ope again.
Perhaps those cruel eyes, in hopeless mood,
Sought in their agony, one pitying look
’Mid that vast multitude.
On square and street and housetop—he surveys
A hundred thousand human eyes, all fixed
In one fierce, pitiless gaze.
Those blood-glued rags—nay, spare him needless pain.
One cry! God grant that we may never hear
A cry like that again!
That trenchant blade hath done its office well—
Hark to the mighty roar! Down, Murderer—
Down to thy native Hell!
And crowded dungeon marvel what it mean—
Hurrah! and louder, louder yet, hurrah
For the good Guillotine!
And parting footsteps echo fast and light—
Our Foe is lodged in the strong Prison of Death!
Paris shall sleep to-night.