St. Bartholomew's Day

The night is come ; no fears disturb
The dreams of innocence ;
They trust in kingly faith and kingly oaths ;
They sleep, — alas ! they sleep !

Go to the palace, wouldst thou know
How hideous night can be ;
Eye is not closed in those accursed walls,
Nor heart at quiet there.

The Monarch from the window leans,
He listens to the night,
And with a horrible and eager hope
Awaits the midnight bell.

Oh, he has Hell within him now !
God, always art thou just !
For innocence can never know such pangs
As pierce successful guilt.

He looks abroad, and all is still.
Hark ! — now the midnight bell
Sounds through the silence of the night alone,
And now the signal gun !

Thy hand is on him, righteous God !
He hears the frantic shrieks.
He hears the glorying yells of massacre,
And he repents, — too late.

He hears the murderer's savage shout,
He hears the groan of death ;
In vain they fly, — soldiers defenceless now.
Women, old men, and babes.

Righteous and just art thou, O God !
For at his dying hour
Those shrieks and groans re-echoed in his ear.
He heard that murderous yell !

They throng'd around his midnight couch,
The phantoms of the slain ; —
It prey'd like poison on his powers of life :
Righteous art thou, O God !

Spirits ! who suffer'd at that hour
For freedom and for faith,
Ye saw your country bent beneath the yoke,
Her faith and freedom crush'd.

And like a giant from his sleep
Ye saw when France awoke ;
Ye saw the people burst their double chain.
And ye had joy in Heaven !