The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly :: :: University of Virginia Library

A distant bell has toll'd,—the wanderers well
Know in its heavy clang the palace bell;
And each puts on his speed, and many a stride
Has passed its courts before the sound has died.
The gates stand closed; the Swiss, a thing of state,
Poising his key as if the key of fate,
Smiles, soothes, impartial deals his soft survey
To the proud strugglers whom he keeps at bay;
The answering smile, bribe, menace tried in vain,
An entrance from his weaker man to gain.
The signal comes at last. The portals all
Are instant open, instant fill'd the hall;
Winding, a long, bright column, up the stair,
On press its plumaged host of brave and fair,
With many a wondering glance, and voice of mirth.
But France! thou guiltiest of the guilty earth,
Why lives in all thy scenes of great or gay
Something that makes the spirit turn away,
Some traitorous taint, some odour of the vault,
Scarce to be thought on, ne'er to be forgot?

If man would worship murder, man might fall
At murder's darkest shrine in that high hall.

Broad day,—the nation gazing on the deed,—
A righteous king unthroned—torn out—to bleed!
His band in blood above, his gallant band,
That stair their fort, their field, their last sad stand.
Then roll'd the crowd—no press of holiday;
'Twas steel to steel, to musket musket's play;
Then there were sparklings through the balustrade—
'Twas the sword shivering on the bayonet blade;
Up to the roof was cloud,—a mass of night,
The volley's livid burst the only light;
Scarce known where man was gorging upon man,
But by the clots that down its sculptures ran;
Or the lopp'd head that by the gory hair
High whirl'd, shot like a meteor down the stair;
Or the torn wretch who, gash'd too deep to fly,
Dragg'd to the porch his mangled limbs to die.
The roar went on above. Vile, noble trunk
On that red spot in thick communion sunk;

The glorious dead, the guilty in one gore,
They met in madness, and they part no more.

Tis past, or past to those who now spread on
Sportive, through chambers thick with couch and throne;
Large, lofty, gorgeous, all that meets the eye
Strong with the stamp of ancient majesty;
The impress which so undefined, yet clear,
Tells that the former Mighty have been there.
All looking hoary pomp; the walls rich scroll'd,
The roof high flourish'd, arras stiff with gold,
In many a burning hue and broad festoon
Wreathing those casements, blazon'd now with noon;
The marble tablets on their silver claws,
Loaded with nymph, and grace, and pix, and vase.
Beside the mirror foot, the Indian screen
Dazzling the eye with dragons red and green:
The mighty mirror, brightning, doubling all,
In its deep crystal lit an endless hall.

The rout a moment paused, gave glance and smile,
Then scatter'd on, to wonder through the pile;

Yet there was beauty in the very light
That round the chamber roll'd its gush of white,
And well the wanderer there might feel his gaze
Tranced by the bright creations of the blaze.
It stoops, a pyramid of fire,—the floor
Gleams like a shifting bed of molten ore;
It strikes the antique mail, the mail returns
A sanguine flame; the vase in jasper burns;
The deep-nich'd statue in that lustre thrown
Gleams, as if light were flashing from the stone;
The altar curtain droops, a pale, proud fold;
'Tis touch'd—'tis living purple, imaged gold.

A massive porte rolls back; the walls, thick starr'd
With pike and pistol, tell the hall of guard.
War all its emblems, from the gloomy roof
Girt with its bold, black forms in knightly proof,
Down to the floor, where by his bright stockade
Paces the mousquetaire in slow parade.
But man may be the sterner emblem still;
Marshal and prince around the canvass fill;

War's thunderbolts! their track was blood and flame,
They blazed and sank—their country's boast and shame.
The heart turns from them; like the desert blast,
They rose to slay, they slew, and they are past.
And treachery has been here. There hangs a pall
For ever on the Marshals' pompous hall.