 | [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet |  |
THE EXECUTION OF LOUIS XVI
He clung to hope e'en at the hour
Appointed for his doom,
Its generous but deceitful power
Shone o'er his spirit's gloom.
When, on the scaffold, hope had flown,
No terrors then to him were known.
Appointed for his doom,
Its generous but deceitful power
Shone o'er his spirit's gloom.
When, on the scaffold, hope had flown,
No terrors then to him were known.
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Calmly and with a steadfast eye
He gazed on that death scene,
The block, the axe, the headsman nigh,
On whose ill-boding mien,
A reckless, sullen hatred writ,
Revealed a heart for murder fit.
He gazed on that death scene,
The block, the axe, the headsman nigh,
On whose ill-boding mien,
A reckless, sullen hatred writ,
Revealed a heart for murder fit.
He sought to speak—the numbers round
Beheld the sign he made,
Each voice was hushed and stilled each sound,
An awful silence laid
On the dark crowds that rolled before,
Like ocean waves with ceaseless roar.
Beheld the sign he made,
Each voice was hushed and stilled each sound,
An awful silence laid
On the dark crowds that rolled before,
Like ocean waves with ceaseless roar.
He spoke, the trumpet's deafening yell,
The drums discordant roar,
In cruel murmurs round him fell,
And he was heard no more,
In vain the anxious crowd pressed nigh—
They only came to see him die.
The drums discordant roar,
In cruel murmurs round him fell,
And he was heard no more,
In vain the anxious crowd pressed nigh—
They only came to see him die.
His last, his only hope was crushed
In vain he sought to speak,
Despair upon his spirit rushed,
And tears upon his cheek.
His pride, his energy was gone,
And thrice he wildly cried, “Undone.”
In vain he sought to speak,
Despair upon his spirit rushed,
And tears upon his cheek.
His pride, his energy was gone,
And thrice he wildly cried, “Undone.”
Ah! he had hoped by his appeal
To rouse a nation's pride
To bid the loyal grasp the steel,
And hasten to his side.
That hope was past, the headsman stood
Impatient for the scene of blood.
To rouse a nation's pride
To bid the loyal grasp the steel,
And hasten to his side.
That hope was past, the headsman stood
Impatient for the scene of blood.
He bent him to the fearful block
With horror-glaring eye,
His neck was bared to meet the stroke,
The axe was lifted high.
The shuddering crowd with straining eyes,
Looked on the place of sacrifice.
With horror-glaring eye,
His neck was bared to meet the stroke,
The axe was lifted high.
The shuddering crowd with straining eyes,
Looked on the place of sacrifice.
The pale priest spoke, “Ascend to Heaven,
St. Louis' royal son.”
He ceased—the fatal blow was given,
The deed abhorred was done.
The bleeding head was lifted high
And “Vive la nation” rose the cry.
St. Louis' royal son.”
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The deed abhorred was done.
The bleeding head was lifted high
And “Vive la nation” rose the cry.
But fury flashed from many an eye,
That saw the deed of guilt,
And many a hand unconsciously
Grasped on the dagger's hilt.
Stearn vengeance until then supprest,
Flamed high in many a loyal breast.
That saw the deed of guilt,
And many a hand unconsciously
Grasped on the dagger's hilt.
Stearn vengeance until then supprest,
Flamed high in many a loyal breast.
Unhallowed deed! Columbia well
May shed, with grief endued,
O'er him who thus despairing fell,
The tear of gratitude.
He was her friend in danger's hour,
Her bulwark, 'gainst a tyrant's power.
May shed, with grief endued,
O'er him who thus despairing fell,
The tear of gratitude.
He was her friend in danger's hour,
Her bulwark, 'gainst a tyrant's power.
Haverhill Gazette, January 6, 1827
| [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet | |