But now I thought, still traversing that widespread plain, 545 With tender pleasure of the verses graven Upon his tombstone, whispering to myself: He loved the Poets, and, if now alive, Would have loved me, as one not destitute Of promise, nor belying the kind hope 550 That he had formed, when I, at his command, Began to spin, with toil, my earliest songs.

[c] As I advanced, all that I saw or felt Was gentleness and peace.

Upon a small And rocky island near, a fragment stood 555 (Itself like a sea rock) the low remains (With shells encrusted, dark with briny weeds) Of a dilapidated structure, once A Romish chapel, [d] where the vested priest Said matins at the hour that suited those 560 Who crossed the sands with ebb of morning tide.
Not far from that still ruin all the plain Lay spotted with a variegated crowd Of vehicles and travellers, horse and foot, Wading beneath the conduct of their guide 565 In loose procession through the shallow stream Of inland waters; the great sea meanwhile Heaved at safe distance, far retired.

I paused, Longing for skill to paint a scene so bright And cheerful, but the foremost of the band 570 As he approached, no salutation given In the familiar language of the day, Cried, "Robespierre is dead!"-- nor was a doubt, After strict question, left within my mind That he and his supporters all were fallen.

575 Great was my transport, deep my gratitude To everlasting Justice, by this fiat Made manifest.