LINES ON THE PLACE DE LA CONCORDE AT PARIS, Amelia Opie (née Alderson) Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
Broad Street Oxford OX1 3BG UK
Eighteenth-Century Poetry Archive
Taylor Institution Library St Giles' Oxford OX1 3NA UK info@eighteenthcenturypoetry.org https://www.eighteenthcenturypoetry.org/
Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. Opie, Amelia Alderson, 1769-1853. The Warrior's Return, and Other Poems. By Mrs. Opie. 2d. ed. London Printed for Longman, Hurst, Rees, and Orme, Paternoster-row 1808 pp. [125]-129.

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LINES ON THE PLACE DE LA CONCORDE AT PARIS ,

Originally called the Place de Louis Seize , — next the Place de la Revolution , where the perpetual guillotine stood .

PROUD Seine , along thy winding tide Fair smiles yon plain expanding wide , And , deckt with art and nature's pride , Seems formed for jocund revelry . Scene , formed the eye of taste to please ! There splendid domes attention seize , There , proudly towering , spreading trees Arise in beauteous rivalry : .... But there's a place amidst that plain Which bids its beauties beam in vain ; Which wakes the inmost soul to pain , And prompts the throb of agony . That place by day , lo ! numbers fly , And , shuddering , start to see it nigh ; Who there at midnight breathe the sigh Of faithful , suffering , loyalty . While , blending with those loyal sighs , Oft times the patriot's murmurs rise , Who thither , hid by darkness , flies , To mourn the sons of liberty . Lo ! as amidst that plain I stray , Methinks strange sadness shrouds the day , And clothed in slaughter's red array Appears the scene of gayety . For once that spot was dark with blood , There death's destroying engine stood , There streamed , alas ! the vital flood Of all that graced humanity . Ah ! since this fair domain ye chose , Dread ruffians , for your murderous blows , Could not the smiling scene unclose Your hearts to love and charity ! No .... horrid contrast ! on that scene The murderer reared his poniard keen ; There proudly stalked with hideous mien The blood-stained sons of anarchy . Nor , Gallia , shall thy varied mirth , Thy store of all that graces earth , Ere give a kind oblivion birth To thy recorded cruelty . In all thy pomp of charms and power , Earth can , alas ! forget no more The awful guilt that stains thy shore With dies of sanguine tyranny , Than they who see blue lightnings beam Can ere forget , though fair they seem , That danger lurks in every gleam , And death's appalling agency .