"Andre Chenier, the original of whatever is truest to nature and genuine passion, in the modern poetry of France, died by the guillotine, July 27, 1794. In ascending the scaffold, he cried, 'To die so young!' 'And there was something here!' he added, striking his forehead, not in the fear of death, but the despair of genius!"--See THIERS, vol. iv. p. 83. Within the prison's dreary girth, The dismal night, before That morn on which the dungeon Earth Shall wall the soul no more, There stood serenest images Where doomed Genius lay, The ever young Uranides Around the Child of Clay. On blacken'd walls and rugged floors Shone cheerful, thro' the night, The stars--like beacons from the shores Of the still Infinite. From Ida to the Poet's cell The Pain-beguilers stole; Apollo tuned his silver shell And Hebe brimm'd the bowl. To grace those walls he needed nought That tint or stone bestows; Creation kindled from his thought: He call'd--and gods arose. The visions Poets only know Upon the captive smiled, As bright within those walls of woe As on the sunlit child; He saw the nameless, glorious things Which youthful dreamers see, When Fancy first with murmurous wings O'ershadows bards to be; Those forms to life spiritual given By high creative hymn; From music born--as from their heaven Are born the Seraphim.[C] Forgetful of the coming day, Upon the dungeon floor He sate to count, poor child of clay, The wealth of genius o'er; To count the gems, as yet unwrought, But found beneath the soil; The bright discoveries claim'd by thought, As future crowns for toil. He sees The Work his breath should warm To life, from out the air: The Shape of Love his soul should form, Then leave its birthright there! He sees the new Immortal rise From her melodious sea; The last descendant of the skies For man to bend the knee-- He sees himself within your shrine O hero gods of Fame! And hears the praise that makes divine The human holy name. True to the hearts of men shall chime The song their lips repeat; When heroes chant the strain, sublime; When lovers breathe it, sweet. Lo, from the brief delusion given, He starts, as through the bars Gleams wan the dawn that scares from Heaven And Thought alike--its stars. Hark to the busy tramp below! The jar of iron doors! The gaoler's heavy footfall slow Along the funeral floors! The murmur of the crowd that round The human shambles throng; That muffled sullen thunder-sound-- The Death-cart grates along! "Alas, so soon!--and must I die," He groan'd forth unresign'd; "Flit like a cloud athwart the sky, And leave no wrack behind! "And yet my Genius speaks to me; The Pythian fires my brain; And tells me what my life should be; A Prophet--and in vain!