And the strong hand of outward violence
  Locked up in quiet.  For myself, I fear 110
  Now in connection with so great a theme
  To speak (as I must be compelled to do)
  Of one so unimportant; night by night
  Did I frequent the formal haunts of men,
  Whom, in the city, privilege of birth 115
  Sequestered from the rest, societies
  Polished in arts, and in punctilio versed;
  Whence, and from deeper causes, all discourse
  Of good and evil of the time was shunned
  With scrupulous care; but these restrictions soon 120
  Proved tedious, and I gradually withdrew
  Into a noisier world, and thus ere long
  Became a patriot; and my heart was all
  Given to the people, and my love was theirs.

  A band of military Officers, 125
  Then stationed in the city, were the chief
  Of my associates:  some of these wore swords
  That had been seasoned in the wars, and all
  Were men well-born; the chivalry of France. 
  In age and temper differing, they had yet 130
  One spirit ruling in each heart; alike
  (Save only one, hereafter to be named) [I]
  Were bent upon undoing what was done: 
  This was their rest and only hope; therewith
  No fear had they of bad becoming worse, 135
  For worst to them was come; nor would have stirred,
  Or deemed it worth a moment’s thought to stir,
  In any thing, save only as the act
  Looked thitherward.  One, reckoning by years,
  Was in the prime of manhood, and erewhile 140
  He had sate lord in many tender hearts;
  Though heedless of such honours now, and changed: 
  His temper was quite mastered by the times,
  And they had blighted him, had eaten away
  The beauty of his person, doing wrong 145
  Alike to body and to mind:  his port,
  Which once had been erect and open, now
  Was stooping and contracted, and a face,
  Endowed by Nature with her fairest gifts
  Of symmetry and light and bloom, expressed, 150
  As much as any that was ever seen,
  A ravage out of season, made by thoughts
  Unhealthy and vexatious.  With the hour,
  That from the press of Paris duly brought
  Its freight of public news, the fever came, 155
  A punctual visitant, to shake this man,
  Disarmed his voice and fanned his yellow cheek
  Into a thousand colours; while he read,
  Or mused, his sword was haunted by his touch
  Continually, like an uneasy place 160
  In his own body.  ’Twas in truth an hour
  Of universal ferment; mildest men
  Were agitated; and commotions, strife
  Of passion and opinion, filled the walls