_Couthon_ (_to the Convention_.)--Our country is in danger--I invoke Your aid, compatriots, to shield her now! Fain as I am to avoid confiding power Without control, in even patriot hands, We cannot choose--and much as I abhor To see blood flow, let punishment descend On traitors' heads, for this alone can save us. _Tallien_ (_approaching him_.) Thou aged fangless tiger! not yet glutted? Torrents of blood are shed for thee and thine-- Must thou have more? Descend--before I trample Thee to the earth. Thou art not fit to live. (_he drags Couthon down by the hair of his head and mounts the Tribune_.) (_addressing the Convention_.) Yes, citizens, our country is imperiled, And by a band of dark conspirators, Soul-hardened miscreants, in whose grasp the ties That bind mankind together are rent asunder By spies--by fraud--by hope of power and spoils-- By baser fears, and by increasing terror Of their dread engine, whose incessant strokes And never failing stream astound mankind. These men have pav'd the way, that open force May crush the hopes of France, and bend our necks Unto a despotism strange as bloody. And who, my countrymen, hath been their leader? Ye know him well--and every Frenchman breathing Hath need to rue the hour which gave _him_ birth-- A wretch accursed in heaven--abhorred on earth, Hath dared aspire to sway most absolute In this Republic--and the dread tribunals Which for the land's protection were established When pressed by foreign arms and homebred treason, He hath converted to the deadly end Of slaughtering all who crossed his onward path. His black intrigues have occupied their seats With robbers and assassins--whose foul riot, Polluted lives, and unquenched thirst of gold, Have beggar'd France and murdered half her sons. Witness those long--long lists of dire proscription Prepar'd at night for every coming day, Even in the very chamber of the tyrant! Witness the wanton, groundless confiscations, Which ruin helpless men, to feed his minions! Witness the cry of woe too great to bear, That hath gone up to heaven from this fair land! Yes--hear it, every man who loves his country-- France, for a ruler now, is ask'd to choose The vampire who would drain her dearest blood: A sordid slave, whose hideous form contains A mind in moral darkness and fierce passions Like nothing, save the cavern gloom of hell, Which knows no light but its consuming fires! I need not point to him. Your looks of terror, Disgust and hatred turn at once upon him. Though there be others of his name, this Hall-- This City--France--the World itself contains Only one--Robespierre. (_the Assembly in great confusion_.) _Robes._ (_to St. Just_.) This blow is sudden.