Cheered with this hope, to Paris I returned, [F]
  And ranged, with ardour heretofore unfelt,
  The spacious city, and in progress passed 50
  The prison where the unhappy Monarch lay,
  Associate with his children and his wife
  In bondage; and the palace, lately stormed
  With roar of cannon by a furious host. 
  I crossed the square (an empty area then!) [G] 55
  Of the Carrousel, where so late had lain
  The dead, upon the dying heaped, and gazed
  On this and other spots, as doth a man
  Upon a volume whose contents he knows
  Are memorable, but from him locked up, 60
  Being written in a tongue he cannot read,
  So that he questions the mute leaves with pain,
  And half upbraids their silence.  But that night
  I felt most deeply in what world I was,
  What ground I trod on, and what air I breathed. 65
  High was my room and lonely, near the roof
  Of a large mansion or hotel, a lodge
  That would have pleased me in more quiet times;
  Nor was it wholly without pleasure then. 
  With unextinguished taper I kept watch, 70
  Reading at intervals; the fear gone by
  Pressed on me almost like a fear to come. 
  I thought of those September massacres,
  Divided from me by one little month, [H]
  Saw them and touched:  the rest was conjured up 75
  From tragic fictions or true history,
  Remembrances and dim admonishments. 
  The horse is taught his manage, and no star
  Of wildest course but treads back his own steps;
  For the spent hurricane the air provides 80
  As fierce a successor; the tide retreats
  But to return out of its hiding-place
  In the great deep; all things have second-birth;
  The earthquake is not satisfied at once;
  And in this way I wrought upon myself, 85
  Until I seemed to hear a voice that cried,
  To the whole city, “Sleep no more.”  The trance
  Fled with the voice to which it had given birth;
  But vainly comments of a calmer mind
  Promised soft peace and sweet forgetfulness. 90
  The place, all hushed and silent as it was,
  Appeared unfit for the repose of night,
  Defenceless as a wood where tigers roam.

    With early morning towards the Palace-walk
  Of Orleans eagerly I turned; as yet 95
  The streets were still; not so those long Arcades;
  There, ’mid a peal of ill-matched sounds and cries,
  That greeted me on entering, I could hear
  Shrill voices from the hawkers in the throng,
  Bawling, “Denunciation of the Crimes 100
  Of Maximilian Robespierre;” the hand,
  Prompt as the voice, held forth a printed