Literary Remains | Page 4

tragedy, of which the first act was written
by S. T. Coleridge." Mr. C.'s note in the Conciones ad Populum, 1795.
Ed.]

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 soul--
Sudden in action, fertile in resource, And rising awful 'mid impending
ruins; In splendour gloomy, as the midnight meteor, That fearless
thwarts the elemental 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.]
[Enter TALLIEN and LEGENDRE.]
TALLIEN. It was Barrere, Legendre! didst thou mark him? Abrupt he

turn'd, yet linger'd as he went, And tow'rds us cast a look of doubtful
meaning.
LEGENDRE. I mark'd him well. I met his eye's last glance; It menac'd
not so proudly as of yore. Methought he would have spoke--but that he
dar'd not-- Such agitation darken'd on his brow.
TALLIEN. 'Twas all-distrusting guilt that kept from bursting
Th'imprison'd secret struggling in the face: E'en as the sudden breeze
upstarting onwards Hurries the thunder cloud, that pois'd awhile Hung
in mid air, red with its mutinous burthen.
LEGENDRE. Perfidious traitor!--still afraid to bask In the full blaze of
power, the rustling serpent Lurks in the thicket of the tyrant's greatness,
Ever prepar'd to sting who shelters him. Each thought, each action in
himself converges; And love and friendship on his coward heart Shine
like the powerless sun on polar ice: To all attach'd, by turns deserting
all, Cunning and dark--a necessary villain!
TALLIEN. Yet much depends upon him--well you know With
plausible harangue 'tis his to paint Defeat like victory--and blind the
mob With truth-mix'd falsehood. They, led on by him, And wild of
head to work their own destruction, Support with uproar what he plans
in darkness.
LEGENDRE. O what a precious name is liberty To scare or cheat the
simple into slaves! Yes--we must gain him over: by dark hints We'll
show enough to rouse his watchful fears, Till the cold coward blaze a
patriot. O Danton! murder'd friend! assist my counsels-- Hover around
me on sad memory's wings, And pour thy daring vengeance in my heart.
Tallien! if but to-morrow's fateful sun Beholds the tyrant living--we are
dead!
TALLIEN. Yet his keen eye that flashes mighty meanings--
LEGENDRE. Fear not--or rather fear th'alternative, And seek for
courage e'en in cowardice-- But see--hither he comes--let us away! His
brother with him, and the bloody Couthon, And, high of haughty spirit,
young St. Just.
[Exeunt.]
[Enter ROBESPIERRE, COUTHON, ST. JUST, and ROBESPIERRE
Junior.]
ROBESPIERRE. What! did La Fayette fall before my power-- And did
I conquer Roland's spotless virtues-- The fervent eloquence of

Vergniaud's tongue, And Brissot's thoughtful soul unbribed and bold!
Did zealot armies haste in vain to save them! What! did th' assassin's
dagger aim its point Vain, as a dream of murder, at my bosom; And
shall I dread the soft luxurious Tallien? Th' Adonis
Tallien,--banquet-hunting Tallien,-- Him, whose heart flutters at the
dice-box! Him, Who ever on the harlots' downy pillow Resigns his
head impure to feverish slumbers!
ST. JUST. I cannot fear him--yet we must not scorn him. Was it not
Antony that conquer'd Brutus, Th' Adonis, banquet-hunting Antony?
The state is not yet purified: and though The stream runs clear, yet at
the bottom lies The thick black sediment of all the factions-- It needs
no magic hand to stir it up!
COUTHON. O, we did wrong to spare them--fatal error! Why lived
Legendre, when that Danton died, And Collot d'Herbois dangerous in
crimes? I've fear'd him, since his iron heart endured To make of Lyons
one vast human shambles, Compar'd with which the sun-scorch'd
wilderness Of Zara were a smiling paradise.
ST. JUST. Rightly thou judgest, Couthon! He is one, Who flies from
silent solitary anguish, Seeking forgetful peace amid the jar Of
elements. The howl of maniac uproar Lulls to sad sleep the memory of
himself. A calm is fatal to him--then he feels The dire upboilings of the
storm within him. A tiger mad with inward wounds!--I dread The fierce
and restless turbulence of guilt.
ROBESPIERRE. Is not the Commune ours? the stern Tribunal? Dumas?
and Vivier? Fleuriot? and Louvet? And Henriot? We'll denounce a
hundred, nor Shall they behold to-morrow's sun roll westward.
ROBESPIERRE JUNIOR. Nay--I am sick of blood! my aching heart
Reviews the long, long train of hideous horrors That still have gloom'd
the rise of the Republic. I should have died before Toulon, when war
Became the patriot!
ROBESPIERRE. Most unworthy wish! He, whose heart sickens at the
blood of traitors Would be himself