Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 35, Pages 269-272
SCENES AND HYMNS OF LIFE,
BY MRS HEMANS,
No. VIII,
PRISONER'S EVENING SERVICE,
A SCENE OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION.*[1]
From their spheres
The stars of human glory are cast down;
Perish the roses and the flowers of kings,
Princes and emperors, and the crown and palms
Of all the mighty, withered and consumed?
Nor is power given to lowliest Innocence
Long to protect her own.—Wordsworth.
Scene—Prison of the Luxembourg, in Paris, during the Reign of Terror.
D'aubigne, an aged Royalist.—Blanche, his Daughter, a young girl.
Blanche. What was our doom, my father?—In thine arms
I lay unconsciously thro' that dread hour.
Tell me the sentence!—Could our judges look,
Without relenting, on thy silvery hair?
Was there not mercy, father?—Will they not
Hasten us to our home?
D'Aubigné.Yes, my poor child!
They send us home.
Blanche.Oh! shall we gaze again
On the bright Loire?—Will the old hamlet-spire,
And the grey turret of our own château,
Look forth to greet us thro' the dusky elms?
Will the kind voices of our villagers,
The loving laughter in their children's eyes,
Welcome us back at last?—But how is this?
—Father! thy glance is clouded—on thy brow
There sits no joy!
D'Aubigné.Upon my brow, dear girl,
There sits, I trust, such deep and solemn peace,
As may befit the Christian, who receives
And recognises, in submissive awe,
The summons of his God.
Blanche.Thou dost not mean—
—No, no! it cannot be!—Didst thou not say
They sent us home?
D’Aubigné.Where is the spirit's home?—
Oh! most of all, in these dark evil days,
Where should it be—but in that world serene,
Beyond the sword’s reach, and the tempest's power—
Where, but in Heaven.
Blanche.My father!
D’Aubigné.We must die.
We must look up to God, and calmly die.
—Come to my heart, and weep there!—for awhile
Give Nature's passion way, then brightly rise
In the still courage of a woman's heart!
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* The last days of two prisoners in the Luxembourg, Sillery and La Souru, so affectingly described by Helen Maria Williams, in her Letters from France, gave rise to this little scene.—These two victims had composed a little hymn, which they every night sung together in a low and restrained voice,
