It was a beautiful and silent day
That overspread the countenance of earth,
Then fading, with unusual quietness,
When from the Loire I parted, and through scenes
Of vineyard, orchard, meadow-ground and tilth,
Calm waters, gleams of sun, and breathless trees,
Towards the fierce metropolis turned my steps
Their homeward way to England.  From his throne
The King had fallen; the congregated host—
Dire cloud, upon the front of which was written
The tender mercies of the dismal wind
That bore it—on the plains of Liberty
Had burst innocuously.  Say more, the swarm
That came elate and jocund, like a band
Of eastern hunters, to enfold in ring
Narrowing itself by moments, and reduce
To the last punctual spot of their despair,
A race of victims—so they seemed—themselves
Had shrunk from sight of their own task, and fled
In terror.   Desolation and dismay
Remained for them whose fancies had grown rank
With evil expectations: confidence
And perfect triumph to the better cause.
The state, as if to stamp the final seal
On her security, and to the world
Shew what she was, a high and fearless soul—
Or rather in a spirit of thanks to those
Who had stirred up her slackening faculties
To a new transition—had assumed with joy
The body and the venerable name
Of a republic.  Lamentable crimes,
'Tis true, had gone before this hour—the work
Of massacre, in which the senseless sword
Was prayed to as a judge—but these were past,
Earth free from them for ever (as was thought),
Ephemeral monsters, to be seen but once,
Things that could only shew themselves and die.

This was the time in which, enflamed with hope,
To Paris I returned.  Again I ranged,
More eagerly than I had done before,
Through the wide city, and in progress passed
The prison where the unhappy monarch lay,
Associate with his children and his wife
In bondage, and the palace, lately stormed
With roar of cannon and a numerous host.
I crossed—a black and empty area then—
The square of the Carousel, few weeks back
Heaped up with dead and dying, upon these
And other sights looking as doth a man
Upon a volume whose contents he knows
Are memorable but from him locked up,
Being written in a tongue be cannot read,
So that be questions the mute leaves with pain,
And half upbraids their silence.  But that night
When on my bed I lay, I was most moved
And felt most deeply in what world I was;
My room was high and lonely, near the roof
Of a large mansion or hotel, a spot
That would have pleased me in more quiet times
Nor was it wholly without pleasure then.
With unextinguished taper I kept watch,
Reading at intervals.  The fear gone by
Pressed on me almost like a fear to come.
I thought of those September massacres,
Divided from me by a little month,
And felt and touched them, a substantial dread
(The rest was conjured up from tragic fictions,
And mournful calendars of true history,
Remembrances and dim admonishments):
'The horse is taught his manage, and the wind
Of heaven wheels round and treads in his own steps;
Year follows year, the tide returns again,
Day follows day, all things have second birth;
The earthquake is not satisfied at once'—
And in such way I wrought upon myself,
Until I seemed to hear a voice that cried
To the whole city, 'Sleep no more!' To this
Add comments of a calmer mind—from which
I could not gather full security—
But at the best it seemed a place of fear,
Unfit for the repose of night,
Defenceless as a wood where tigers roam.