ROBESPIERRE JUNIOR. Nay--I am sick of blood! my aching heart Reviews the long, long train of hideous horrors That still have gloom'd the rise of the Republic. I should have died before Toulon, when war Became the patriot! ROBESPIERRE. Most unworthy wish! He, whose heart sickens at the blood of traitors Would be himself a traitor, were he not A coward! 'Tis congenial souls alone Shed tears of sorrow for each other's fate. O, thou art brave, my brother! and thine eye Full firmly shines amid the groaning battle-- Yet in thine heart the woman-form of pity Asserts too large a share, an ill-timed guest! There is unsoundness in the state--to-morrow Shall see it cleansed by wholesome massacre! ROBESPIERRE JUNIOR. Beware! already do the Sections murmur-- "O the great glorious patriot, Robespierre-- The tyrant guardian of the country's freedom!" COUTHON. 'Twere folly sure to work great deeds by halves! Much I suspect the darksome fickle heart Of cold Barrere! ROBESPIERRE. I see the villain in him! ROBESPIERRE JUNIOR. If he--if all forsake thee--what remains? ROBESPIERRE. Myself! the steel-strong rectitude of soul And poverty sublime 'mid circling virtues! The giant victories, my counsels form'd, Shall stalk around me with sun-glittering plumes, Bidding the darts of calumny fall pointless. [Exeunt. Manet Couthon.] COUTHON. So we deceive ourselves! What goodly virtues Bloom on the poisonous branches of ambition! Still, Robespierre! thou'l't guard thy country's freedom To despotize in all the patriot's pomp. While conscience, 'mid the mob's applauding clamours, Sleeps in thine ear, nor whispers--blood-stain'd tyrant! Yet what is conscience? superstition's dream Making such deep impression on our sleep-- That long th' awaken'd breast retains its horrors! But he returns--and with him comes Barrere. [Exit Couthon.] [Enter ROBESPIERRE and BARRERE.] ROBESPIERRE. There is no danger but in cowardice.-- Barrere! we make the danger, when we fear it. We have such force without, as will suspend The cold and trembling treachery of these members. BARRERE. Twill be a pause of terror.-- ROBESPIERRE. But to whom? Rather the short-lived slumber of the tempest, Gathering its strength anew. The dastard traitors! Moles, that would undermine the rooted oak! A pause!--a moment's pause!--'Tis all their life. BARRERE. Yet much they talk--and plausible their speech. Couthon's decree has given such powers, that-- ROBESPIERRE. That what? BARRERE. The freedom of debate--