PROTECTED I COLL, PS 2692 R42 T45 IC-NRLF UC !^ V.IS. THEROIGNE DE MERICOURT; IN FIVE PARTS, BY LOUIS S. D. REES PART I. WILLIS P. HAZARD, ur 178 CHESNUT STREET. f9 f 4, &_. . Entered, according to Act of Congress, in tlie year 1855, by LOUIS S. D. REES. in the Office of the Clerk of the District Court of the United States, in and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania. INQUIRER BOOK PRESS, 57 SOUTH THIRD STREET, PHILADELPHIA, To ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE The traveller, poet, orator, historian; whose holy eloquence in the hour of revolutionary ex- citement did more for the good of humanity and the honor of his country, than even the varied and beautiful productions of his pen have done for his own literary fame, this First Part of a Romance, the idea of which was suggested by a perusal of the "Histoire des Girondins," is most respectfully inscribed by his obedient servant and sincere admirer, THE AUTHOR. TO THE PUBLIC. The favorable opinions expressed by his friends, have emboldened the author of the following lines to submit them to the public eye. He does so with considerable hesitation; not only because he appre- ciates the difficulties of the task he has undertaken in attempting to write a romance, but also because he is aware that there is a general indisposition on the part of the reading world, to give attention to any thing that comes to it in a metrical form. He invokes, however, a patient perusal and a candid judgment, if not for his own sake, yet at least for the sake of her whom he has chosen to be the sub- ject of his song, Theroigne de Mericourt, one of the most beautiful, the most gifted, and the most ill-fated of women. 168 Chesnut Street, March 2nd, 1855. THEROIGNE DE MEKICOURT. A ROMANCE. PABT I. Hark ! what cry of wild despair Rudely wakes the slumbering air? See ! what spectral figure stands ; Stretches forth its withered hands; Lays its throbbing bosom bare ; Tears its long and streaming hair; Upward glances to the sky; Downward turns its flashing eye; Loudly laughs with causeless glee; Weeps at fancied misery ? No decent robe of pride and taste Is girdled round that fragile waist; No gem-set gold or braided twist Encompasses that slender wrist; Nor sparkles on her hand the ring, Whose magic circle still might bring Back to the soul all fresh and warm, Some lost but not forgotten form: But squalid raiment, coarse and mean, Where many a gaping rent is seen, Too oft to wanton eye betrays Charms never meant for idle gaze ; While the rough cord and rattling chain, Her movements' wild excess restrain. But list! she speaks; and Oh! such words Of horror, that (like reeking swords, Which, stained with gouttes of human gore, Still gleam as if they asked for more,) They seem to come from one whose hand Hath done the deeds a fiend had plann'd. "Off with his head! Away!" she cries; "No mercy here! the traitor dies! " Blood, blood we'll have, to quench our thirst " For vengeance on the race accurst, " Those proud aristocrats, whose reign, " Millions had mourned, but mourned in vain. "Raise the tall scaffold to the sky! "'Twere sweet to see our tyrants die. " Ha ! ha ! bethink thee of the day " When, lured from home and peace away, "I left What! shrink ye back, vile race? " Cowards ! away ! Give woman place ! "And let her wield the avenging knife! " And let her head the glorious strife ! "Oh! spare me, spare me!" yet she cries: " Not now ! not here ! before all eyes ! "Bury me in some dungeon deep; " Or hmi me down the craggy steep ; " Qr cast me to the raging flame ; "But do not Ha ! to see my shame " Thou too hast left thy silent grave ! " Or art thou come thy child to save ? " Scourge me ? it cannot, shall not be : " See, see ! my bonds are burst, I'm free !" Poor maniac wretch ! 'tis Death alone Shall free thee from those walls of stone; Those iron bars; that clanking chain; That worse than any real pain ; Those fancied tortures of the mind, The direst that afflict mankind. Alas ! can madness thus efface Each beauteous trait, each winning grace ; And sink the sacred human form Beneath the level of the worm? Ah ! I have seen the new-born charms Of infants in their mothers' arms, Just waking from a sweet repose, Disfigured by convulsive throes : I've seen Consumption's hand of stealth Plant lilies on the brow of health, And draw the shadows of the tomb Athwart youth's bright and sunny bloom : I've seen, beneath Contagion's power, The loveliest form, like some fair flower, 8 Smitten with such a fearful blight, That Pity sickened at the sight : I've seen the ashes of the dead Thrown festering from their lowly bed, And left exposed to common view As if to show what Death can do : But all was mercy, beauty all, Compared with what men Madness call; That makes the intellectual sight Impervious save to Hell's own light; That shuts the intellectual ear Save to the damnings of despair; That prompts the virgin's lip to speak Words so debased, that to the cheek Of common wantons there would rush, While uttering them, the burning blush; That sways its sceptre of control Where tyrants cannot o'er the soul; And makes a thing of human birth A very demon upon earth. God ! if for records on my page Of early youth or later age ; Records of crimes against thy law Thy hand the avenging sword must draw; Oh ! let its stroke remorseless fall On health, wealth, freedom, life; yea, all: Yet, in my sorrow's darkest hour, Let Reason still retain its power; Nor quench that last celestial ray, Till in death's shades Fpass away ! 9 But turn we from this dreary sight To view a scene where all is bright; Where thoughtless youth and sober age Alike in rustic sports engage ; And, turning from their toils away, Join in a general holiday : While Virtue can without a frown Upon the merry group look down; And e'en Religion smiles to see Their pure unsullied revelry. There are spots in creation which Nature's own hand Would seem in her happiest moods to have plann'd ; Or some potent magician, with mystical spell, To have raised as a home where a Peri might dwell : So radiantly bright, or so calmly serene ; So free from all shadows to darken the scene; That 'tis hard to believe the deep wrinkle of care Can furrow the brows of the favored ones there ; Or the terrible phantoms of sickness and death Pollute the fair place with their pestilent breath. Perchance 'tis some mansion of opulent ease Half hid from the view by embosoming trees; Placed high on the brow of a verdure-clad hill, As a monument reared to its architect's skill : Not vulgarly tricked out, for gaudy display, With pillars of plaster, and coatings of clay; But simple yet noble, as best might become, Not the splendor of state, but the comfort of home. 10 In front a broad meadow, where browse or recline The favorite horse, and the well-fatted kine, The innocent lamb, and the matronly ewe, Just enough to give quiet repose to the view : More near a choice garden, from whose spicy bowers Exhales the sweet odor of thousands of flowers, Where, like faithless adorers, the butterfly gay Just sips of their sweetness, then flutters away. T li'-iJT Perchance 'tis some castle, whose battlements rise As if conscious of strength, till they threaten the skies ; While its deep-laid foundations, embracing the rock, Have stood, and shall stand, of long ages the shock. Around, rugged steeps, which the goat cannot climb, Stand as bulwarks against the encroachments of Time. Far below foams a torrent, whose waters now flash 'Neath the blaze of the sun; now mysteriously dash Through the gloom of ravines, from whence issues alone The deep roar of its waves, or the rock's hollow groan ; While the landscape beyond wears an aspect so soft, So unlike the huge relic which towers aloft, That it seems like an infant laid prostrate in prayer At the feet of the giant who frowns on it there. Perchance 'tis some valley where, hid from mankind, A few tranquil spirits their paradise find ; 11 Who, sick of the world, with its bitter and sweet, Have sought refuge from all in this welcome retreat. But all that elsewhere boasts of grandeur or grace, Met in one to embellish the beautiful place, Whose innocent revelry gladdens our eye As we turn with alarm from the maniac's cry. See the castle, which still, in defiance of Time, Stands as firm in its age as it stood in its prime; Though the festival pomp and the feudal array Which it witnessed of old have long since passed away. See the mansion, whose lordly possessor combines The wealth that commands with the taste that refines : And there, far below, in that beautiful vale, See the homes where repose and contentment prevail ; Where no one can boast of broad acres he owns, And no one unpitied in misery groans ; Where the milk of their flocks, or the fruit of their fields To each, without luxury, competence yields; And if there, as elsewhere, bread is purchased by toil, Yet the labor bestowed on a generous soil But renders more welcome the calm eventide, When, sitting at ease by his own fireside, Or reclining outstretched 'neath the sun's western With his "gudewife" at hand and his children at Play, 12 The poorest man feels a warm glow at his heart, Such as wealth with its splendors can never impart; And looking towards heaven he gratefully sings, "'Tis the Good God above us who gives these good things."* It was not in that sea-girt isle, Where Liberty with radiant smile Shines equally on all; While Commerce with a bounteous hand Spreads plenty o'er the favored land, Obedient to her call : It was not in this western sphere Where Nature's giant forms appear In cataract, tree, or plain; While mighty floods impetuous sweep, Now broad as seas, and now as deep, Down to the circling main : It was not in that sunny land Whence Dante's pen and Raphael's hand Electrified the world ; Whence Rome, the mistress of mankind, Through every clime, to every wind, Her conquering flag unfurled : It was in thee, thou lovely France, Land of the festive song and dance, Foremost on history's page ; * " Deus nobis haec otia fecit." 13 Where still new scenes of wonder rise To take the nations by surprise, As age succeeds to age ! Oh ! who that treads thy princely halls. And views upon their gorgeous walls The records of thy fame; Or sees thy columns, mounting high And pointing upward to the sky, Inscribed with many a name : Who that recalls the noble men Potent to wield the sword or pen, To conquer or to save; Who hailed thee as their land of birth, And found in thee their bed of earth, Their cradle and their grave : Who that remembers that thy land Was rescued once by woman's hand From fierce invading foes ; And cowering 'neath the hated yoke, At her command its fetters broke And in its strength uprose : Who that bethinks him of the man Whose mighty mind alike could span The little and the great; Could keep a conquered world in awe, Construct a road, reform a law, Or renovate a state : - 2 14 Who that to all these marvels turns, Can wonder at the pride that burns Within each son of thine, As, counting o'er thy countless charms, Thy deeds in arts, thy deeds in arms, He cries, " This land is mine T Nor let me pass unheeded by That kind unvarying courtesy Which every stranger meets, Who moves thy higher walks among, Or mingles with the meaner throng That traverses thy streets. Oh ! it hath been my lot to roam 1 Par from my country and my home With desolated heart ; And still thy gentle, kindly smile Could soothe my grief, my cares beguile, And peace and hope impart. But wherefore to-day All this festive array, * Wherein rich and poor equally share ? What lends a new grace To the child's merry face, And smooths the rough forehead of Care ? Why floats o'er the hall And the old castle wall The banner so gorgeous and bright;] While each cottage is seen Decked with garlands of green, To betoken its owner's delight ? 15 What wakes the glad notes Whose sweet harmony floats From yon church o'er the scene far and near ? And why does the song Of the peasant prolong The sweet sound as it falls on his ear? Why groans the full board With each luxury stored, Where the lord and his tenantry join? And why does the glass So incessantly pass With its bumpers of generous wine ? Is it Victory's voice Bids the rustics rejoice O'er their country's success in the field ? Or the last sheaf of corn From the harvesting borne At the close of a plentiful yield ? No ; the vale and hill-top With the ungathered crop Still shine as with gilding o'erspread; And the revelry here Is unstained by the tear Which the widow and orphan have shed. Little they know who sit, and gaze With eager eyes upon the blaze Of glaring light and gaudy hue With which the drama courts their view : Who see now lamp-lit suns arise, Now clouds bedeck the canvas skies ; Now the tall ship, whose outspread sails Are swelled by artificial gales; 16 Now the cool grot, or woodland shade, As if in taunting mockery made Of that o'ercrowded human mass Who hail the wonders as they pass : Little they know how dark and drear Viewed from behind those scenes appear, Where nought but dust and cobwebs hide The vile reverse of all that pride : Little they know who raise the shout That greets the player, strutting out To act his part with mimic skill Obedient to another's will, And weep or laugh, grieve or rejoice According to the prompter's voice : Little that gaping crowd can tell What real joys his bosom swell ; Or what unfeigned distress and pain May wring his heart, and fire his brain ! And have not bards in every age Told us " this life is but a stage ;" And each man, at his best estate, An actor in the scenes of fate ? Who wears a smile, who drops a tear Obedient to a heart sincere? Where is the man that does not throw A mantle o'er his weal and woe, And deck him with a borrowed plume Ere he step forth to rave and fame, 17 And tread the boards of life's wide stage, The amusement of a passing age ? And when, despite the busy play, We steal at intervals away, And hide us in lone solitudes Where no unwelcome eye intrudes; Is it not there, and there alone, We truly smile, and truly groan? And when Death lets the curtain fall i On play, and players, scenes, and all, Do we not then first lay aside The counterfeiting garb of pride, And stand before our Maker's eye In beauty or deformity? Yes, 'tis -an universal truth, In hoary age, in sprightly youth ; Deep sunk in vice, by virtue raised; Courted or shunned, reviled or praised; Though scanned by many a curious eye, UNKNOWN WE LIVE, UNKNOWN WE DIE. Behold yon mansion's noble lord ! With ample wealth his chest is stored; His barn, his granary abounds With the rich produce of his grounds; The scutcheon of his ancient race No treason stains, no crimes debase ; And he as proudly lifts his head As any of the ancestral dead. The world applaud his happy state, Envy a man so rich and great, 2* 18 Nor doubt that he, at least, is free From the sad entail, misery ! Had not they seen him bow his head In drooping anguish o'er that bed, Where, racked with pain and fell disease, His son, his only son he sees ? Had they not seen him wipe away With trembling hand the drops that lay Upon that brow so still and fair, Like tears which Death himself shed there ? Had they not seen, as, hour by hour, Faded that beauteous fragile flower, The father's features gathered gloom From the dark shadows of the tomb? And, when the agonising gasp Told of Death's latest, firmest grasp ; When, not like one who courts repose, But tossing wild with fearful throes, And uttering shrieks at each new pang Whose echoes through the mansion rang, When thus, to the worst form of death, The boy had yielded up his breath, Had they not seen him torn away, Still clinging to the lifeless clay ; And heard the accents of despair Which told his all had perished there ? Yes, the sad story of his woe Has caused full many a tear to flow; 19 And gossips love to tell the tale When winter's evening shades prevail, And prove an unacknowledged joy To find that wealth has its alloy, And e'en the lordly and the great Must share the universal fate : " But time," the unthinking world would say, "Long time since then has passed away; "And time can minister relief " To souls most bowed by weight of grief." True ; the deep wound upon his heart Did lose its pungency of smart : True; he could join the manly sport, Frequent new scenes, appear at court : Yet, when among gay revellers found, While glass and goblet passed around, And the loud laugh and jovial song Strove which should most the mirth prolong ; Then would there oft unbidden rise Hot scalding tears and deep-drawn sighs, As some unlocked for, trivial thing Waked the vibrations of that string, Whose deeply melancholy tone Breathed but one thought, "My son, my son!" But away, away with desponding care, With this pale-faced grief, and wan despair! Lo, Mercy descends to earth again; And with her Hope's gay and laughing train ! And see how she bears with encircling arm A babe whose beauty grim Death might charm ! 20 And again, with that well-remembered joy. The father embraces an infant boy, Whose sunny smile, by no shadow crossed, Can more than replace the idol lost. Then spread ye the banquet's ample store ! Spread it for rich, and spread it for poor ! Bid the young and old, with merry heart, Hasten to bear in the feast their part ! Nor fear ye though Midnight stoop to hear Your song of joy and your hearty cheer. This day we consecrate to Heaven The blessing so benignly given. This day we house him in the ark ; This day we seal him with the mark Worn by the "sacramental host," The proud world's scorn, the good man's boast! Well then may heaven itself rejoice ! Well may the earth lift up her voice ! Well may the Church aloud proclaim " The second birth," " the Christian name." But see yon modest dwelling, dressed With care and skill beyond the rest ; As if its inmates strove to show A more than sympathetic glow Within their happy bosoms burned, For blessings which themselves concerned. Its quiet aspect, placed between The proudly great and poorly mean, 21 Tells not indeed of gorgeous wealth, But of peace, competence, and health. The close cut hedge, the gay parterre, No mercenary hand declare. ' The orchard's promising increase, The dog reclining at his ease, The bird that struts his life away, Proud his gay plumage to display; All, all proclaim that easy state Envied alike by small and great, That golden mediocrity, From pining as from surfeit free. Within that home of peace reside' A lover and his happy bride ; So closely knit in love's own bond, So free from every thought beyond, That but one spirit seems to dwell In both their frames, one magic spell With mystic influence to control Each thought and feeling of each soul. Perchance, indeed, to one who knew To search man's nature through and through, There might appear upon his side Too much of that stern manly pride, That walks the earth with stately tread And lifts sublime to heaven its head, As if, in conscience of its worth, It scorned the meaner things of earth : That feels no pity for the price Which, soon or late, men pay for vice 5 22 That joys, as Mercy doth, to bless, And weeps at innocent distress; But cannot, like that angel, stoop To lift a prostrate sinner up. r- Perchance her soul too feebly hung Upon his strength ; too closely clung For safety to his sheltering arm, On danger's most remote alarm. It seemed as if the self-same blow That struck at him must lay her low; As if even God Himself she feared, Chiefly because he too revered. Yet blame them not; 'twas but the excess Of virtue dimmed their loveliness ; And e'en the sun is said to show Some dark spots 'midst his burning glow. Not yet twelve months had rolled away Since dawned the memorable day That placed the bridegroom by the side Of his own chosen, cherished bride, When neighbors crowded round to see The first sweet smile of infancy, And on the unconscious lips to press The gentle kiss of tenderness. Poor fragile flower ! they little knew Who o'er it bent their earnest view, What gathering tempests would arise In after years to cloud its skies ; row no'i v [O'.r- ,ibiityf 23 Till the wild fury of the storm Burst on its frail and shrinking form. 'Twas on the day, when first with joy Yon proud lord had embraced his boy, That first his humbler tenant prest An infant daughter to his breast; And willed that lord that the same hour Should see each consecrated flower Transferred from nature's barren waste, And, by the rite baptismal, placed Within the Church's hallowed bounds, Those fertile, sheltered, happy grounds, Where each young tree of Paradise Blooms ere transplanted to the skies. Ye who would contemplate a sight Which angels gaze on with delight,'] And more than angels from above Deign to rejoice in and approve; Look on that consecrated place ! Look on that minister of grace ! Look on that pure baptismal stream All radiant with a kindly beam From Mercy's own benignant eyes, As wide she opens Paradise ! Look on those infants, for whose fate Heaven, Earth, and Hell expectant wait ! ^ Angels to guard their course through life, And shield them 'mid its dreadful strife : 24 Or waft them swift from earth away To regions of unclouded day. Parents whose every hope, and fear, And joy, and grief are centred there : Demons to blast their opening bloom With sin's dark stain, and Hell's deep gloom; To make their ruined souls a curse, A plague-spot in the universe, Till God, in mercy to the race, Bid Death the damning blot efface. Oh ! if we welcome with applause The man who in a righteous cause Seizes on sword, and spear, and shield, And rushes to the battle-field, Careless though 'mid the heaps of slain His own unburied corpse remain : If with delight we view the maid, Now first in nuptial garb arrayed, Who speaks the irrevocable word That gives her to her bosom's lord : Say, shall not equal praise be given To him who wields the sword of heaven; And by the sacred sign he bears Upon his brow true fealty swears In life, in death, through gain, through loss, To him who triumphed on the cross? Say, shall not equal joys arise For souls new-wedded to the skies, Who spotless as the robes they wear, In virgin innocence appear, 25 To be presented to their lord, The Church's husband, and her God ! But ah ! what prescient eye can scan The distant future of the man, On whose unconscious baby brow The sacred drops are falling now ? Shall the wide world resound his fame? Or echo with his guilt and shame? Or shall he, like some drifting bark, Float o'er life's sea, nor leave one mark, One single furrow on the wave Betwixt his baptism and his grave? Perchance that little rosy lip In after years may fondly sip The cup of pleasurable sin, And, with it, drink damnation in. Perchance that tiny hand we see Feebly stretched out towards vacancy, May one day grasp the reeking blade With human slaughter crimson made, And fling the devastating brand O'er many a fair and smiling land. "' That voice, now uttering fretful cries, In burning eloquence may rise To thrill a nation with its tone, Or hurl a monarch from his throne : Or (dreadful thought!) may utter loud, 'Midst impious folly's laughing crowd, 3 26 The bold defiance 'gainst High Heaven, Nor breathe one prayer to be forgiven. That infant form may rise to wear A weight of glory even here : Amid its generation stand Diffusing blessings round the land ; Chase, like the glorious orb of day, The mists of sin and grief away, And cause the admiring world to see How bright a Christian's course may be ; By bad men feared, by good men loved, By conscience and by God approved: May, after death, still higher rise, There, there, where angels walk the skies; And view with unbeclouded sight The effulgence of the Eternal Light. That infant form may prostrate lie In sloth, in vice, in infamy ; Spread, with its pestilential breath, That worst of plagues, a moral death ; Be praised by none, by none be loved, By conscience hourly be reproved; Feel in its inmost soul the dread Of vengeance falling on its head; And sink at last (how darkly deep!) Down, down for ever; still to weep, Long as the weary ages roll, The ruin of a deathless soul. bv/J! 8B& 27 The rites performed, with serious thought imprest. Sober, not sad, returns each welcome guest To share the bounties of his generous lord, And meet around his hospitable board. All crown the goblet, the sweet nectar quaff, Sing the glad song, and raise the cheerful laugh; Then join the dance, and, to the varied sound Of string and pipe, tread the fantastic round; Not anxious for display, but only bent To give expression to their hearts^ content; And some, 'tis said, whose dancing days were o'er, On this occasion danced again once more. Light was each foot, and sparkled every eye, Swift flew the merry hours unheeded by, Jj jjuA Till, -as the village clock, with solemn tone, Warned that another fleeting day was gone, Back to the banquet-hall the guests repair, Once more its hospitalities to share. The banquet o'er, uprose the man of God, And spread his suppliant hands to heaven abroad, And, with a voice of dignity and love, Invoked on all a blessing from above. Just then, a stranger through the portal slowly en- tered, On whose gaunt form the eyes of each with awe were centered. In gloomy contrast with this scene of chastened gladness, Her every look and feature wore a hue of sadness. 28 The crimson stream of life had lost its power to redden Her hollow cheek; her eye was lustreless and leaden. Onward she moved, and seemed it that she little heeded How each, with look of fear as she advanced, re- ceded. Onward she moved until she stood beside the father, The mansion's noble lord, then seemed her soul to gather New fervency of passion, and new stern decision; And thus she spake, and, speaking, smiled as in derision : " Happy man ! While you can, Revel in your joy ; Still caress And fondly press Your pretty baby boy ! Wretched man ! Could you scan Dark futurity, You would say, 'Woe worth the day Gave that boy to me ! 7 Love how great! Deadly hate ! Both their forms I see. ' Spare my life! 7 'Nay, whet the knife; Vengeance calls for thee.' " Onward she moved, nor stayed until she stood Beside that other father; while his blood Grew cold within his veins, and paled his cheek As waited he the words she yet might speak. 29 But see how changed a form she bears ! Mark how her eyes are filled with tears ! And list, with what a plaintive moan She chants these words in softened tone : "There was a flower In Beauty's bower, Lovely in form and hue ; Now dimly seen Through foliage green, Now hidden from the view. In evil hour About that flower A wily serpent coiled, Whose poisonous breath With taint of death Its virgin beauties soiled. " I saw from far A twinkling star Beam in the evening sky ; Whose timid light, So meekly bright, Shrunk from the gazing eye. There came a cloud With gloom to enshroud That unobtrusive ray; And, quenched in night, The modest light Passed from the scene away. "0 guard from harms Those opening charms, So transient and so dear; For storms will rise In summer skies, And there's a serpent near ! " Onward she moved to the grave priest; and, by him standing, Said, with an attitude and tone of voice com- manding, 30 As felfc she that prophetic words to her were given, And that she too could claim authority from heaven : '' Stretched there a sea All brilliantly ; I stood upon its shore ; And as I stood It turned to blood, Deep crimson human gore. ^^^^~-- ~^^>7fT^7Tf7rrolT a ol> \m r >. wo H I "And forth there came, In lurid flame, The hideous form of DEATH ; With visage thin, And ghastly grin, And hot devouring breath. " Then spake the Dead These words of dread In deep sepulchral tone ; ' The hour is come, The hour of doom, The hour that's all mine own. Li; ' i & 90/#3 010 AT