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(From Man in the Iron Mask)
STRANGE Old-World tale!—we know the Bastille fell | |
| Ages ago. We ’ve stood upon its site, | |
| And, gazing heavenward, through the silver mists | |
| Of falling stars infinitesimal, | |
| That slowly hovered toward the earth and formed | 5 |
| In dreamy atmospheres that painters love | |
| The soft embodiment of morning air, | |
| Saw thy sky-piercing column. O July! | |
| A tall and stately shaft with classic scrolls | |
| Wrought on its antique capital where stands | 10 |
| Poised airily a-tiptoe on one foot, | |
| That scarcely presses on the golden globe; | |
| A mighty-winged divinity! | |
| Not crowned with petasus, nor bound about | |
| As to his ankles with talares swift, | 15 |
| Nor sceptred with caduceus,—serpent-twined, | |
| Borne gayly out arm’s-length, and held on high, | |
| The wingéd symbol of ethereal sway, | |
| But grasping in one hand a torch, whose flame | |
| Flares back upon him as he seems to fly, | 20 |
| Through realms of air above distracted worlds, | |
| And in the other a great broken chain, | |
| An outwrenched bolt, and fetter-lock therewith. | |
| We, viewing thus the golden god aloft | |
| (Our thoughts reverting to the olden days), | 25 |
| Cried out, with sudden impulse, as we gazed,— | |
| Eidolon! sprung from Liberty and Light! | |
| Poised in thy beauty o’er the vaults of doom; | |
| Time was, ere thy bright presence bathed the “Place” | |
| In borrowed sunshine, when the Bastille towers | 30 |
| Frowned on the passer-by; and silence reigned | |
| Supremely sad, save where the night-bird cries | |
| Of sentinels beat back the crowding air; | |
| Or where the booming clock, with sullen tones, | |
| Proclaimed the lapse, the wane, the death of hours; | 35 |
| Or where the low cadenzas of a lute, | |
| Borne through a loop-hole’s gush of whirling wind, | |
| And mingled with strange murmurs, tranced the ear, | |
| Saddening all souls that felt the harmony. | |
| Too late! too late thy brandished blazing torch | 40 |
| Flamed like a glory through those darkened cells; | |
| Too late the might of thine herculean arm | |
| Wrested, O golden angel! from those doors | |
| The bolts and staples, hinges, massy chains, | |
| Setting the captives free, mid warlike din, | 45 |
| And voices of a populace that roared, | |
| “Down with the Bastille! Over with it! Down!” | |
| Another angel, with a sadder face, | |
| Descended like a dart, still angel-like, | |
| Through clouds of air, stout roofs, and floors of stone, | 50 |
| Into the masked one’s cell, and sate with him. | |
| Looked the unutterable mystery | |
| Into the weary eyes that followed his, | |
| Content to be absorbed; then vanishing, | |
| Fled out into the night,—and not alone. | 55 |
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