TALLIEN. Yet much depends upon him--well you know With plausible harangue 'tis his to paint Defeat like victory--and blind the mob With truth-mix'd falsehood. They, led on by him, And wild of head to work their own destruction, Support with uproar what he plans in darkness. LEGENDRE. O what a precious name is liberty To scare or cheat the simple into slaves! Yes--we must gain him over: by dark hints We'll show enough to rouse his watchful fears, Till the cold coward blaze a patriot. O Danton! murder'd friend! assist my counsels-- Hover around me on sad memory's wings, And pour thy daring vengeance in my heart. Tallien! if but to-morrow's fateful sun Beholds the tyrant living--we are dead! TALLIEN. Yet his keen eye that flashes mighty meanings-- LEGENDRE. Fear not--or rather fear th'alternative, And seek for courage e'en in cowardice-- But see--hither he comes--let us away! His brother with him, and the bloody Couthon, And, high of haughty spirit, young St. Just. [Exeunt.] [Enter ROBESPIERRE, COUTHON, ST. JUST, and ROBESPIERRE Junior.] ROBESPIERRE. What! did La Fayette fall before my power-- And did I conquer Roland's spotless virtues-- The fervent eloquence of Vergniaud's tongue, And Brissot's thoughtful soul unbribed and bold! Did zealot armies haste in vain to save them! What! did th' assassin's dagger aim its point Vain, as a dream of murder, at my bosom; And shall I dread the soft luxurious Tallien? Th' Adonis Tallien,--banquet-hunting Tallien,-- Him, whose heart flutters at the dice-box! Him, Who ever on the harlots' downy pillow Resigns his head impure to feverish slumbers! ST. JUST. I cannot fear him--yet we must not scorn him. Was it not Antony that conquer'd Brutus, Th' Adonis, banquet-hunting Antony? The state is not yet purified: and though The stream runs clear, yet at the bottom lies The thick black sediment of all the factions-- It needs no magic hand to stir it up! COUTHON. O, we did wrong to spare them--fatal error! Why lived Legendre, when that Danton died, And Collot d'Herbois dangerous in crimes? I've fear'd him, since his iron heart endured To make of Lyons one vast human shambles, Compar'd with which the sun-scorch'd wilderness Of Zara were a smiling paradise. ST. JUST. Rightly thou judgest, Couthon! He is one, Who flies from silent solitary anguish, Seeking forgetful peace amid the jar Of elements. The howl of maniac uproar Lulls to sad sleep the memory of himself. A calm is fatal to him--then he feels The dire upboilings of the storm within him. A tiger mad with inward wounds!--I dread The fierce and restless turbulence of guilt. ROBESPIERRE. Is not the Commune ours? the stern Tribunal? Dumas? and Vivier? Fleuriot? and Louvet? And Henriot? We'll denounce a hundred, nor Shall they behold to-morrow's sun roll westward.