Can the fires of Nobility ever be quench'd, or the stars by a stormy night?

Is the body diseas'd when the members are healthful? can the man be bound in sorrow

Whose ev'ry function is fill'd with its fiery desire? can the soul, whose brain and heart

Cast their rivers in equal tides thro' the great Paradise, languish because the feet,

Hands, head, bosom, and parts of love follow their high breathing joy?

And can Nobles be bound when the people are free, or God weep when his children are happy?

Have you never seen Fayette's forehead, or Mirabeau's eyes, or the shoulders of Target,

Or Bailly the strong foot of France, or Clermont the terrible voice, and your robes

Still retain their own crimson? -- Mine never yet faded, for fire delights in its form!

But go, merciless man, enter into the infinite labyrinth of another's brain

Ere thou measure the circle that he shall run. Go, thou cold recluse, into the fires

Of another's high flaming rich bosom, and return unconsum'd, and write laws.

If thou canst not do this, doubt thy theories, learn to consider all men as thy equals,

Thy brethren, and not as thy foot or thy hand, unless thou first fearest to hurt them.'

The Monarch stood up; the strong Duke his sword to its golden scabbard return'd;

The Nobles sat round like clouds on the mountains, when the storm is passing away:--

`Let the Nation's Ambassador come among Nobles, like incense of the valley!'

Aumont went out and stood in the hollow porch, his ivory wand in his hand;

A cold orb of disdain revolv'd round him, and coverèd his soul with snows eternal.

Great Henry's soul shudderèd, a whirlwind and fire tore furious from his angry bosom;

He indignant departed on horses of heav'n. Then the Abbè de Sieyes rais'd his feet

On the steps of the Louvre; like a voice of God following a storm, the Abbé follow'd

The pale fires of Aumont into the chamber; as a father that bows to his son, Whose rich fields inheriting spread their old glory, so the voice of the people bowèd

Before the ancient seat of the kingdom and mountains to be renewèd.

`Hear, O heavens of France! the voice of the people, arising from valley and hill,

O'erclouded with power. Hear the voice of valleys, the voice of meek cities,

Mourning oppressèd on village and field, till the village and field is a waste.

For the husbandman weeps at blights of the fife, and blasting of trumpets consume

The souls of mild France; the pale mother nourishes her child to the deadly slaughter.