blot the writing of God
Written in my bosom. Necker rise! leave the kingdom, thy life is surrounded with snares.
We have call'd an Assembly, but not to destroy; we have given gifts, not to the weak;
I hear rushing of muskets and bright'ning of swords; and visages, redd'ning with war,
Frowning and looking up from brooding villages and every dark'ning city.
Ancient wonders frown over the kingdom, and cries of women and babes are heard,
And tempests of doubt roll around me, and fierce sorrows, because of the Nobles of France.
Depart! answer not! for the tempest must fall, as in years that are passèd away.'

Dropping a tear the old man his place left, and when he was gone out
He set his face toward Geneva to flee; and the women and children of the city
Kneel'd round him and kissèd his garments and wept: he stood a short space in the street,
Then fled; and the whole city knew he was fled to Geneva, and the Senate heard it.
But the Nobles burn'd wrathful at Necker's departure, and wreath'd their clouds and waters
In dismal volumes; as, risen from beneath, the Archbishop of Paris arose
In the rushing of scales, and hissing of flames, and rolling of sulphurous smoke:--

`Hearken, Monarch of France, to the terrors of heaven, and let thy soul drink of my counsel!
Sleeping at midnight in my golden tower, the repose of the labours of men
Wav'd its solemn cloud over my head. I awoke; a cold hand passèd over my limbs, and behold!

An agèd form, white as snow, hov'ring in mist, weeping in the uncertain light.

Dim the form almost faded, tears fell down the shady cheeks; at his feet many cloth'd

In white robes, strewn in air censers and harps, silent they lay prostrated; Beneath, in the awful void, myriads descending and weeping thro' dismal winds;

Endless the shady train shiv'ring descended, from the gloom where the agèd form wept.

At length, trembling, the vision sighing, in a low voice like the voice of the grasshopper, whisper'd:

"My groaning is heard in the abbeys, and God, so long worshipp'd, departs as a lamp

Without oil; for a curse is heard hoarse thro' the land, from a godless race Descending to beasts; they look downward, and labour, and forget my holy law;

The sound of prayer fails from lips of flesh, and the holy hymn from thicken'd tongues;

For the bars of Chaos are burst; her millions prepare their fiery way

Thro' the orbèd abode of the holy dead, to root up and pull down and remove,

And Nobles and Clergy shall fail from before me, and my cloud and vision be no more;

The mitre become black, the crown vanish, and the sceptre and ivory staff Of the ruler wither among bones of death; they shall consume from the thistly field,

And the sound of the bell, and voice of the sabbath, and singing of the holy choir

Is turn'd into songs of the harlot in day, and cries of the virgin in night.

They shall drop at the plough and faint at the harrow, unredeem'd, unconfess'd, unpardon'd;

The priest rot in his surplice by the lawless lover, the holy beside the accursèd,

The King, frowning in purple, beside the grey ploughman, and their worms embrace together."

The voice ceas'd: a groan shook my chamber. I slept, for the cloud of repose returnèd;