The dead brood over Europe, the cloud and vision descends over
　　　chearful France;
O cloud well appointed! Sick, sick: the Prince on his couch, wreath'd
　　　in dim
And appalling mist; his strong hand outstretch'd, from his shoulder
　　　down the bone
Runs aching cold into the scepter too heavy for mortal grasp. No more
To be swayed by visible hand, nor in cruelty bruise the mild
　　　flourishing mountains.


Sick the mountains, and all their vineyards weep, in the eyes of the
　　　kingly mourner;
Pale is the morning cloud in his visage. Rise, Necker: the ancient
　　　dawn calls us
To awake from slumbers of five thousands years. I awake, but my soul
　　　is in dreams;
From my window I see the old mountains of France, like aged men,
　　　fading away.


Troubled, leaning on Necker, descends the King, to his chamber of
　　　council; shady mountains
In fear utter voices of thunder; the woods of France embosom the
　　　sound;
Clouds of wisdom prophetic reply, and roll over the palace roof heavy,
Forty men: each conversing with woes in the infinite shadows of his
　　　soul,
Like our ancient fathers in regions of twilight, walk, gathering round
　　　the King;
Again the loud voice of France cries to the morning, the morning
　　　prophecies to its clouds.


For the Commons convene in the Hall of the Nation. France shakes!
　　　And the heavens of France
Perplex'd vibrate round each careful countenance! Darkness of old
　　　times around them
Utters loud despair, shadowing Paris; her grey towers groan, and the
　　　Bastile trembles.
In its terrible towers the Governor stood, in dark fogs list'ning the
　　　horror;


A thousand his soldiers, old veterans of France, breathing red clouds
　　　of power and dominion,
Sudden seiz'd with howlings, despair, and black night, he stalk'd like a
　　　lion from tower
To tower, his howlings were heard in the Louvre; from court to court
　　　restless he dragg'd
His strong limbs; from court to court curs'd the fierce torment
　　　unquell'd,
Howling and giving the dark command; in his soul stood the purple
　　　plague,
Tugging his iron manacles, and piercing through the seven towers
　　　dark and sickly,
Panting over the prisoners like a wolf gorg'd; and the den nam'd
　　　Horror held a man
Chain'd hand and foot, round his neck an iron band, bound to the
　　　impregnable wall.
In his soul was the serpent coil'd round in his heart, hid from the
　　　light, as in a cleft rock;
And the man was confin'd for a writing prophetic: in the tower nam'd
　　　Darkness, was a man
Pinion'd down to the stone floor, his strong bones scarce cover'd
　　　with sinews; the iron rings
Were forg'd smaller as the flesh decay'd, a mask of iron on his face hid
　　　the lineaments


Of ancient Kings, and the frown of the eternal lion was hid from the
　　　oppressed earth.
In the tower named Bloody, a skeleton yellow remained in its chains
　　　on its couch
Of stone, once a man who refus'd to sign papers of abhorrence; the
　　　eternal worm
Crept in the skeleton. In the den nam'd Religion, a loathsome sick
　　　woman, bound down
To a bed of straw; the seven diseases of earth, like birds of prey, stood
　　　on the couch,
And fed on the body. She refus'd to be whore to the Minister, and
　　　with a knife smote him.
In the tower nam'd Order, an old man, whose white beard cover'd the
　　　stone floor like weeds
On margin of the sea, shrivel'd up by heat of day and cold of night;
　　　his den was short
And narrow as a grave dug for a child, with spiders webs wove, and
　　　with slime
Of ancient horrors cover'd, for snakes and scorpions are his
　　　companions; harmless they breathe
His sorrowful breath: he, by conscience urg'd, in the city of Paris
　　　rais'd a pulpit,


And taught wonders to darken'd souls. In the den nam'd Destiny a
　　　strong man sat,
His feet and hands cut off, and his eyes blinded; round his middle a
　　　chain and a band
Fasten'd into the wall; fancy gave him to see an image of despair in
　　　his den,
Eternally rushing round, like a man on his hands and knees, day and
　　　night without rest.
He was friend to the favourite. In the seventh tower, nam'd the tower
　　　of God, was a man
Mad, with chains loose, which he dragg'd up and down; fed with
　　　hopes year by year, he pined
For liberty; vain hopes: his reason decay'd, and the world of attraction
　　　in his bosom
Center'd, and the rushing of chaos overwhelm'd his dark soul. He was
　　　confin'd
For a letter of advice to a King, and his ravings in winds are heard over
　　　Versailles.


But the dens shook and trembled, the prisoners look up and assay to
　　　shout; they listen,
Then laugh in the dismal den, then are silent, and a light walks round
　　　the dark towers.


For the Commons convene in the Hall of the Nation; like spirits of
　　　fire in the beautiful
Porches of the Sun, to plant beauty in the desart craving abyss, they
　　　gleam
On the anxious city; all children new-born first behold them; tears are
　　　fled,
And they nestle in earth-breathing bosoms. So the city of Paris, their
　　　wives and children,
Look up to the morning Senate, and visions of sorrow leave pensive
　　　streets.


But heavy brow'd jealousies lower o'er the Louvre, and terrors of
　　　ancient Kings
Descend from the gloom and wander thro' the palace, and weep
　　　round the King and his Nobles.
While loud thunders roll, troubling the dead, Kings are sick
　　　throughout all the earth,
The voice ceas'd: the Nation sat: And the triple forg'd fetters of
　　　times were unloos'd.
The voice ceas'd: the Nation sat: but ancient darkness and trembling
　　　wander thro' the palace.
As in day of havock and routed battle, among thick shades of
　　　discontent,


On the soul-skirting mountains of sorrow cold waving: the Nobles
　　　fold round the King,
Each stern visage lock'd up as with strong bands of iron, each strong
　　　limb bound down as with marble,
In flames of red wrath burning, bound in astonishment a quarter of
　　　an hour.


Then the King glow'd: his Nobles fold round, like the sun of old
　　　time quench'd in clouds;
In their darkness the King stood, his heart flam'd, and utter'd a
　　　with'ring heat, and these words burst forth:
The nerves of five thousand years ancestry tremble, shaking the
　　　heavens of France;
Throbs of anguish beat on brazen war foreheads, they descend and
　　　look into their graves.

I see thro' darkness, thro' clouds rolling round me, the spirits of
　　　ancient Kings
Shivering over their bleached bones; round them their counsellors look
　　　up from the dust,
Crying: Hide from the living! Our b[a]nds and our prisoners shout in
　　　the open field,
Hide in the nether earth! Hide in the bones! Sit obscured in the
　　　hollow scull.
Our flesh is corrupted, and we [wear] away. We are not numbered
　　　among the living. Let us hide
In stones, among roots of trees. The prisoners have burst their dens,
Let us hide; let us hide in the dust; and plague and wrath and tempest
　　　shall cease.


He ceas'd, silent pond'ring, his brows folded heavy, his forehead was
　　　in affliction,
Like the central fire: from the window he saw his vast armies spread
　　　over the hills,
Breathing red fires from man to man, and from horse to horse; then
　　　his bosom
Expanded like starry heaven, he sat down: his Nobles took their
　　　ancient seats.


Then the ancientest Peer, Duke of Burgundy, rose from the
　　　Monarch's right hand, red as wines
From his mountains, an odor of war, like a ripe vineyard, rose from
　　　his garments,
And the chamber became as a clouded sky; o'er the council he
　　　stretch'd his red limbs,
Cloth'd in flames of crimson, as a ripe vineyard stretches over sheaves
　　　of corn,
The fierce Duke hung over the council; around him croud, weeping
　　　in his burning robe,
A bright cloud of infant souls; his words fall like purple autumn on
　　　the sheaves.

Shall this marble built heaven become a clay cottage, this earth an
　　　oak stool, and these mowers
From the Atlantic mountains, mow down all this great starry harvest
　　　of six thousand years?
And shall Necker, the hind of Geneva, stretch out his crook'd sickle
　　　o'er fertile France,

Till our purple and crimson is faded to russet, and the kingdoms of
　　　earth bound in sheaves,
And the ancient forests of chivalry hewn, and the joys of the combat
　　　burnt for fuel;
Till the power and dominion is rent from the pole, sword and scepter
　　　from sun and moon,
The law and gospel from fire and air, and eternal reason and science
From the deep and the solid, and man lay his faded head down on
　　　the rock
Of eternity, where the eternal lion and eagle remain to devour?
This to prevent, urg'd by cries in day, and prophetic dreams hovering
　　　in night,
To enrich the lean earth that craves, furrow'd with plows; whose seed
　　　is departing from her;
Thy Nobles have gather'd thy starry hosts round this rebellious city,
To rouze up the ancient forests of Europe, with clarions of cloud
　　　breathing war;
To hear the horse neigh to the drum and trumpet, and the trumpet
　　　and war shout reply;
Stretch the hand that beckons the eagles of heaven; they cry over
　　　Paris, and wait
Till Fayette point his finger to Versailles; the eagles of heaven must
　　　have their prey.
The King lean'd on his mountains, then lifted his head and look'd
　　　on his armies, that shone
Through heaven, tinging morning with beams of blood, then turning
　　　to Burgundy troubled:

Burgundy, thou wast born a lion! My soul is o'ergrown with distress
For the Nobles of France, and dark mists roll round me and blot the
　　　writing of God
Written in my bosom. Necker rise, leave the kingdom, thy life is
　　　surrounded with snares;
We have call'd an Assembly, but not to destroy; we have given gifts,
　　　not to the weak;
I hear rushing of muskets, and bright'ning of swords, and visages
　　　redd'ning with war,
Frowning and looking up from brooding villages and every dark'ning
　　　city;
Ancient wonders frown over the kingdom, and cries of women and
　　　babes are heard,
And tempests of doubt roll around me, and fierce sorrows, because
　　　of the Nobles of France;
Depart, answer not, for the tempest must fall, as in years that are
　　　passed away.


He ceas'd, and burn'd silent, red clouds roll round Necker, a weeping
　　　is heard o'er the palace;
Like a dark cloud Necker paus'd, and like thunder on the just man's
　　　burial day he paus'd;
Silent sit the winds, silent the meadows, while the husbandman and
　　　woman of weakness
And bright children look after him into the grave, and water his clay
　　　with love,
Then turn towards pensive fields; so Necker paus'd, and his visage
　　　was cover'd with clouds.


Dropping a tear the old man his place left, and when he was gone out
He set his face toward Geneva to flee, and the women and children
　　　of the city
Kneel'd round him and kissed his garments and wept; he stood a short
　　　space in the street,
Then fled; and the whole city knew he was fled to Geneva, and the
　　　Senate heard it.


But the Nobles burn'd wrathful at Necker's departure, and wreath'd
　　　their clouds and waters
In dismal volumes; as risen from beneath the Archbishop of Paris
　　　arose,
In the rushing of scales and hissing of flames and rolling of sulphurous
　　　smoke.


Hearken, Monarch of France, to the terrors of heaven, and let thy
　　　soul drink of my counsel;


Sleeping at midnight in my golden tower, the repose of the labours
　　　of men
Wav'd its solemn cloud over my head. I awoke; a cold hand passed
　　　over my limbs, and behold
An aged form, white as snow, hov'ring in mist, weeping in the
　　　uncertain light,


Dim the form almost faded, tears fell down the shady cheeks; at his
　　　feet many cloth'd
In white robes, strewn in air sensers and harps, silent they lay
　　　prostrated;
Beneath, in the awful void, myriads descending and weeping thro'
　　　dismal winds,
Endless the shady train shiv'ring descended, from the gloom where
　　　the aged form wept.
At length, trembling, the vision sighing, in a low voice, like the voice
　　　of the grasshopper whisper'd:
My groaning is heard in the abbeys, and God, so long worshipp'd,
　　　departs as a lamp
Without oil; for a curse is heard hoarse thro' the land, from a godless
　　　race
Descending to beasts; they look downward and labour and forget my
　　　holy law;
The sound of prayer fails from lips of flesh, and the holy hymn from
　　　thicken'd tongues;
For the bars of Chaos are burst; her millions prepare their fiery way
Thro' the orbed abode of the holy dead, to root up and pull down and
　　　remove,
And Nobles and Clergy shall fail from before me, and my cloud and
　　　vision be no more;
The mitre become black, the crown vanish, and the scepter and ivory
　　　staff
Of the ruler wither among bones of death; thy shall consume from
　　　the thistly field,
And the sound of the bell, and voice of the sabbath, and singing of
　　　the holy choir,
Is turn'd into songs of the harlot in day, and cries of the virgin in
　　　night.
They shall drop at the plow and faint at the harrow, unredeem'd,
　　　unconfess'd, unpardon'd;
The priest rot in his surplice by the lawless lover, the holy beside the
　　　accursed,
The King, frowning in purple, beside the grey plowman, and their
　　　worms embrace together.
The voice ceas'd, a groan shook my chamber; I slept, for the cloud of
　　　repose returned,


But morning dawn'd heavy upon me. I rose to bring my Prince
　　　heaven utter'd counsel.
Hear my counsel, O King, and send forth thy Generals, the command
　　　of heaven is upon thee;
Then do thou command, O King, to shut up this Assembly in their
　　　final home;


Let thy soldiers possess this city of rebels, that threaten to bathe their
　　　feet
In the blood of Nobility; trampling the heart and the head; let the
　　　Bastile devour
These rebellious seditious; seal them up, O Anointed, in everlasting
　　　chains.
He sat down, a damp cold pervaded the Nobles, and monsters of
　　　worlds unknown
Swam round them, watching to be delivered; When Aumont, whose
　　　chaos-born soul
Eternally wand'ring a Comet and swift-failing fire, pale enter'd the
　　　chamber;
Before the red Council he stood, like a man that returns from hollow
　　　graves.


Awe surrounded, alone thro' the army a fear ad a with'ring blight
　　　blown by the north;
The Abbe de Seyes from the Nation's Assembly. O Princes and
　　　Generals of France
Unquestioned, unhindered, awe-struck are the soldiers; a dark
　　　shadowy man in the form
Of King Henry the Fourth walks before him in fires, the captains
　　　like men bound in chains
Stood still as he pass'd, he is come to the Louvre, O King, with a
　　　message to thee;
The strong soldiers tremble, the horses their manes bow, and the
　　　guards of thy palace are fled.


Up rose awful in his majestic beams Bourbon's strong Duke; his proud
　　　sword from his thigh
Drawn, he threw on the Earth! the Duke of Bretagne and the Earl
　　　of Borgogne
Rose inflam'd, to and fro in the chamber, like thunder-clouds ready
　　　to burst.


What damp all our fires, O spectre of Henry, said Bourbon; and
　　　rend the flames
From the head of our King! Rise, Monarch of France; command me,
　　　and I will lead


This army of superstition at large, that the ardor of noble souls
　　　quenchless,
May yet burn in France, nor our shoulders be plow'd with the furrows
　　　of poverty.


Then Orleans generous as mountains arose, and unfolded his robe,
　　　and put forth
His benevolent hand, looking on the Archbishop, who changed as pale
　　　as lead;
Would have risen but could not, his voice issued harsh grating; instead
　　　of words harsh hissings
Shook the chamber; he ceas'd abash'd. Then Orleans spoke, all was
　　　silent,
He breath'd on them, and said, O princes of fire, whose flames are
　　　for growth not consuming,
Fear not dreams, fear not visions, nor be you dismay'd with sorrows
　　　which flee at the morning;
Can the fires of Nobility ever be quench'd, or the stars by a stormy
　　　night?
Is the body diseas'd when the members are healthful? can the man be
　　　bound in sorrow
Whose ev'ry function is fill'd with its fiery desire? can the soul whose
　　　brain and heart
Cast their rivers in equal tides thro' the great Paradise, languish
　　　because the feet
Hands, head, bosom, and parts of love, follow their high breathing
　　　joy?
And can Nobles be bound when the people are free, or God weep
　　　when his children are happy?
Have you never seen Fayette's forehead, or Mirabeau's eyes, or the
　　　shoulders of Target,
Or Bailly he strong foot of France, or Clermont the terrible voice,
　　　and your robes
Still retain their own crimson? mine never yet faded, for fire delights
　　　in its form.
But go, merciless man! enter into the infinite labyrinth of another's
　　　brain
Ere thou measure the circle that he shall run. Go, thou cold recluse,
　　　into the fires
Of another's high flaming rich bosom, and return unconsum'd, and
　　　write laws.
If thou canst not do this, doubt thy theories, learn to consider all men
　　　as thy equals,
Thy brethren, and not as thy foot or thy hand, unless thou first fearest
　　　to hurt them.


The Monarch stood up, the strong Duke his sword to its golden
　　　scabbard return'd,
The Nobles sat round like clouds on the mountains, when the storm
　　　is passing away.


Let the Nation's Ambassador come among Nobles, like incense of the
　　　valley.


Aumont went out and stood in the hollow porch, his ivory wand in
　　　his hand;
A cold orb of disdain revolv'd round him, and covered his soul with
　　　snows eternal.
Great Henry's soul shuddered, a whirlwind and fire tore furious
　　　from his angry bosom;
He indignant departed on horses of heav'n. Then the Abbe de
　　　Seyes rais'd his feet
On the steps of the Louvre, like a voice of God following a storm, the
　　　Abbe follow'd
The pale fires of Aumont into the chamber, as a father that bows to
　　　his son;
Whose rich fields inheriting spread their old glory, so the voice of the
　　　people bowed
Before the ancient seat of the kingdom and mountains to be renewed.


Hear, O Heavens of France, the voice of the people, arising from
　　　valley and hill,
O'erclouded with power. Hear the voice of vallies, the voice of meek
　　　cities,
Mourning oppressed on village and field, till the village and field is a
　　　waste.
For the husbandman weeps at blights of the fife, and blasting of
　　　trumpets consume
The souls of mild France; the pale mother nourishes her child to
　　　the deadly slaughter.
When the heavens were seal'd with a stone, and the terrible sun clos'd
　　　in an orb, and the moon
Rent from the nations, and each star appointed for watchers of night,
The millions of spirits immortal were bound in the ruins of sulphur
　　　heaven
To wander inslav'd; black, deprest in dark ignorance, kept in awe with
　　　the whip,
To worship terrors, bred from the blood of revenge and breath of
　　　desire,
In beastial forms; or more terrible men, till the dawn of our peaceful
　　　morning,


Till dawn, till morning, till the breaking of clouds, and swelling of
　　　winds, and the universal voice,
Till man raise his darken'd limbs out of the caves of night, his eyes
　　　and his heart
Expand: where is space! where O Sun is thy dwelling! where thy tent,
　　　O faint slumb'rous Moon,
Then the valleys of France shall cry to the soldier, throw down thy
　　　sword and musket,
And run and embrace the meek peasant. Her nobles shall hear and
　　　shall weep, and put off
The red robe of terror, the crown of oppression, the shoes of contempt,
　　　and unbuckle
The girdle of war from the desolate earth; then the Priest in his
　　　thund'rous cloud
Shall weep, bending to earth embracing the valleys, and putting his
　　　hand to the plow,
Shall say, no more I curse thee; but now I will bless thee: No more
　　　in deadly black
Devour thy labour; nor lift up a cloud in thy heavens, O laborious
　　　plow,
That the wild raging millions, that wander in forests, and howl in
　　　law blasted wastes,
Strength madden'd with slavery, honesty, bound in the dens of
　　　superstition,
May sing in the village, and shout in the harvest, and woo in
　　　pleasant gardens,
Their once savage loves, now beaming with knowledge, with gentle
　　　awe adorned;
And the saw, and the hammer, the chisel, the pencil, the pen, and the
　　　instruments
Of heavenly song sound in the wilds once forbidden, to teach the
　　　laborious plowman
And shepherd deliver'd from clouds of war, from pestilence, from
　　　night-fear, from murder,
From falling, from stifling, from hunger, from cold, from slander,
　　　discontent and sloth;
That walk in beasts and birds of night, driven back by the sandy
　　　desart
Like pestilent fogs round cities of men: and the happy earth sing in
　　　its course,
The mild peaceable nations be opened to heav'n, and men walk with
　　　their fathers in bliss.
Then hear the first voice of the morning: Depart, O clouds of night,
　　　and no more


Return; be withdrawn cloudy war, troops of warriors depart, nor
　　　around our peaceable city
Breathe fires, but ten miles from Paris, let all be peace, nor a soldier
　　　be seen.


He ended; the wind of contention arose and the clouds cast their
　　　shadows, the Princes
Like the mountains of France, whose aged trees utter an awful voice,
　　　and their branches
Are shatter'd, till gradual a murmur is heard descending into the
　　　valley,
Like a voice in the vineyards of Burgundy, when grapes are shaken
　　　on grass;
Like the low voice of the labouring man, instead of the shout of joy;
And the palace appear'd like a cloud driven abroad; blood ran down,
　　　the ancient pillars,
Thro' the cloud a deep thunder, the Duke of Burgundy, delivers the
　　　King's command.


Seest thou yonder dark castle, that moated around, keeps this city of
　　　Paris in awe.
Go command yonder tower, saying, Bastile depart, and take thy
　　　shadowy course.
Overstep the dark river, thou terrible tower, and get thee up into the
　　　country ten miles.
And thou black southern prison, move along the dusky road to
　　　Versailles; there
Frown on the gardens, and if it obey and depart, then the King will
　　　disband
This war-breathing army; but if it refuse, let the Nation's Assembly
　　　thence learn,
That this army of terrors, that prison of horrors, are the bands of the
　　　murmuring kingdom.
Like the morning star arising above the black waves, when a
　　　shipwreck'd soul sighs for morning,
Thro' the ranks, silent, walk'd the Ambassador back to the Nation's
　　　Assembly, and told
The unwelcome message; silent they heard; then a thunder roll'd
　　　round loud and louder,
Like pillars of ancient halls, and ruins of times remote they sat.
Like a voice from the dim pillars Mirabeau rose; the thunders
　　　subsided away;


A rushing of wings around him was heard as he brighten'd, and
　　　cried out aloud,


Where is the General of the Nation? the walls reecho'd: Where is
　　　the General of the Nation?


Sudden as the bullet wrapp'd in his fire, when brazen cannons rage
　　　in the field,
Fayette sprung from his seat saying, Ready! then bowing like clouds,
　　　man toward man, the Assembly
Like a council of ardors seated in clouds, bending over the cities of
　　　men,
And over the armies of strife, where their children are marshall'd
　　　together to battle;
They murmuring divide, while the wind sleeps beneath, and the
　　　numbers are counted in silence,
While they vote the removal of War, and the pestilence weighs his
　　　red wings in the sky.


So Fayette stood silent among the Assembly, and the votes were given
　　　and the numbers numb'red;
And the vote was, that Fayette should order the army to remove ten
　　　miles from Paris.


The aged sun rises appall'd from dark mountains, and gleams a
　　　dusky beam
On Fayette, but on the whole army a shadow, for a cloud on the
　　　eastern hills
Hover'd, and stretch'd across the city and across the army, and across
　　　the Louvre,
Like a flame of fire he stood before dark ranks, and before expecting
　　　captains
On pestilent vapours around him flow frequent spectres of religious
　　　men weeping
In winds driven out of the abbeys, their naked souls shiver in keen
　　　open air,
Driven out by the fiery cloud of Voltaire, and thund'rous rocks of
　　　Rousseau,
They dash like foam against the ridges of the army, uttering a faint
　　　feeble cry.


Gleams of fire streak the heavens, and of sulpur the earth, from
　　　Fayette as he lifted his hand;
But silent he stood, till all the officers rush round him like waves
Round the shore of France, in day of the British flag, when heavy
　　　cannons
Affright the coasts, and the peasant looks over the sea and wipes a
　　　tear;
Over his head the soul of Voltaire shone fiery, and over the army
　　　Rousseau his white cloud


Unfolded, on souls of war-living terrors silent list'ning toward
　　　Fayette,
His voice loud inspir'd by liberty, and by spirits of the dead, thus
　　　thunder'd.


The Nation's Assembly command, that the Army remove ten miles
　　　from Paris;
Nor a soldier be seen in road or in field, till the Nation command
　　　return.


Rushing along iron ranks glittering the officers each to his station
Depart, and the stern captain strokes his proud steed, and in front of
　　　his solid ranks
Waits the sound of trumpet; captains of foot stand each by his cloudy
　　　drum;
Then the drum beats, and the steely ranks move, and trumpets
　　　rejoice in the sky.
Dark cavalry like clouds fraught with thunder ascend on the hills,
　　　and bright infantry, rank
Behind rank, to the soul shaking drum and shrill fife along the roads
　　　glitter like fire.
The noise of trampling, the wind of trumpets, smote the palace walls
　　　with a blast.
Pale and cold sat the king in midst of his peers, and his noble heart
　　　sunk, and his pulses
Suspended their motion, a darkness crept over his eye-lids, and chill
　　　cold sweat
Sat round his brows faded in faint death, his peers pale like
　　　mountains of the dead,
Cover'd with dews of night, groaning, shaking forests and floods. The
　　　cold newt
And snake, and damp toad, on the kingly foot crawl, or croak on the
　　　awful knee,
Shedding their slime, in folds of the robe the crown'd adder builds
　　　and hisses
From stony brows; shaken the forests of France, sick the kings of
　　　the nations,
And the bottoms of the world were open'd, and the graves of
　　　arch-angels unseal'd;
The enormous dead, lift up their pale fires and look over the rocky
　　　cliffs.
A faint heat from their fires reviv'd the cold Louvre; the frozen blood
　　　reflow'd.
Awful up rose the king, him the peers follow'd, they saw the courts
　　　of the Palace


Forsaken, and Paris without a soldier, silent, for the noise was gone
　　　up
And follow'd the army, and the Senate in peace, sat beneath morning's
　　　beam.