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MARIE ANTOINETTE'S LAMENTATION, IN HER PRISON OF THE TEMPLE, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: When on my bosom evening's ruby light
Last Line: And snatch one victim from the last despair?
Subject(s): French Revolution (1789); Marie Antoinette, Queen Of France


When on my bosom Evening's ruby light
Thro' my thrice-grated window warmly glows,
Why does the cheerful ray offend my sight,
And with its lustre mock my weary woes?
Alas! because on my sad breast appears
A dreadful record—written with my tears!

When awful Midnight, with her ebon wand,
Charms Nature's poorest meanest child to peace,
Why cannot I one little hour command,
When gentle sleep may bid my anguish cease?
Alas! because, where'er I lay my head,
A dreary couch I find, with many a thorn o'erspread.

When the sun, rising in the eastern skies,
Awakes the feather'd race to songs divine,
Why does remembrance picture to these eyes
The jocund morn of life, that once was mine?
Alas! because, in sorrow doom'd to mourn,
I ne'er shall see that blissful morn return!

When I behold my darling infants sleep,
Fair spotless blossoms, deck'd in op'ning charms,
Why do I start aghast, and wildly weep,
And madly snatch them to my eager arms?
Ah me! because my sense, o'erwhelm'd with dread,
Views the sweet cherubs on their funeral bed!

Why, when they ope their eyes to gaze on me,
And fondly press me in their dear embrace,
Hang on my neck, or clasp my trembling knee,
Why do maternal sorrows drench my face?
Alas! because inhuman hands unite
To tear from my fond soul its last delight!

Oh, fell Barbarity! yet spare a while
The sacred treasures of my throbbing breast;
Oh, spare their infant hearts, untouch'd by guile,
And let a widow'd mother's darlings rest!
Though you have struck your faulchions at the root,
Oh, give the tender branches time to shoot!

The lightning, by the angry tempest cast,
Strikes at the lofty pine, and lays it low;
While the small flow'ret 'scapes the deadly blast,
A while its od'rous breath around to throw!
Then let distracted GALLIA'S lilies bloom,
Tho' but to deck with sweets a dungeon's gloom!

O my poor innocents! all bath'd in tears,
Like with'ring flow'rets wash'd with chilling dew,
Sleep on, nor heed a frantic mother's fears:
The savage tigers will not injure you!
Your harmless bosoms not a crime can know,
Scarce born to greatness—ere consign'd to woe!

When left forlorn, dejected, and alone,
Imperfect sounds my pensive soul annoy;
I hear in every distant mingling tone
The merry bells—the boist'rous songs of joy!
Ah! then I contemplate my loathsome cell,
Where meagre grief and scowling horror dwell!

The rabble's din, the tocsin's fateful sound,
The cannon thund'ring thro' the vaulted sky,
The curling smoke, in columns rising round,
Which from my iron lattice I descry,
Rouse my lethargic mind! I shriek in vain,
My tyrant jailor only mocks my pain!

Yet bear thy woes, my soul, with proud disdain,
Meet the keen lance of Death with stedfast eye;
Think on the glorious tide that fills each vein,
And throbbing bids me tremble not, to die!
Yet, shall I from my friendless children part?
Oh, all the mother rushes to my heart!

Where'er I turn, a thousand ills appear,
Arm'd at all points, in terrible array:
Pale hood-wink'd murder ever lurking near,
And coward cruelty that shuns the day!
See, see, they pierce, with many a recreant sword,
The mangled bosom of my bleeding Lord!

Oh, dreadful thought! Oh, agony supreme!
When will the sanguinary scene be o'er?
When will my soul, in sweet Oblivion's dream,
Fade from this orb to some more peaceful shore?
When will the cherub Pity break the snare,
And snatch one victim from the last despair?





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