Was gentleness and peace. Upon a small And rocky island near, a fragment stood, (Itself like a sea rock) the low remains (With shells encrusted, dark with briny weeds) Of a dilapidated structure, once A Romish chapel, where the vested priest Said matins at the hour that suited those 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 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 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.