Poems (Barker)/Charlotte Corday
In the Corcoran Art Gallery at Washington, there hangs a beautiful picture, to which every visitor involuntarily returns a second time. It represents a young and beautiful girl gazing out from behind the bars of a prison cell. There is such a depth of sadness in the face; the beautiful, pleading eyes follow one so wistfully, and yet, there is such high courage in them, the Artist has portrayed the expression so perfectly, that one can scarcely realize that they are not gazing upon real grief, and that this is a work of art.
The subject of the picture, Charlotte Corday, was born at St. Saturnin, in the department of Orne, in 1768 She came from a noble family and was possessed of a remarkable beauty. Her life was cast in that stormy period of French history, and all that was good and heroic within her revolted at the blood-thirsty deeds of Robespierre, Danton and Marat, "the triumvirate of blood," and she resolved that one of these oppressors must die, that her country might in some measure be freed from its thralldom.
She went to Paris, still undecided as to whether she should slay Robespierre or Marat. Hearing that the latter had issued an order for the lives of one or two hundred thousand more victims for the guillotine, settled the question for her beyond a doubt. After two unsuccessful attempts to gain admission to Marat, she finally prevailed by representing that she had important news from Corea to communicate. Marat informed her that a party who had fled to Normandy, among whom were some of her friends, would be guillotined in a few day. She instantly plunged the dagger into the villain's heart.
Without a moments hesitation she took her life in her hands and gave it for those she loved. She was immediately arrested and brought before that merciless tribunal, before which so many victims had quailed in terror. Her brave, heroic spirit upheld her through this terrible ordeal and she boldly justified her act. She was condemned to die by the guillotine and bravely met her fate July 17th, 1793.
Oh! fair, sweet face, behind thy prison bars,
Comes there no ray of light into thy gloom?
See those sad eyes the pale light of the stars,
Beyond the darkness of thy coming doom?
The hours steal on, and bring no rest to thee,
The dagger from that firm white hand is torn,
Raised yester morn to set thy country free.
At memory of the carnival of blood,
And where the stream ran reddest, down the hill
One fair, frail maiden stepped to stem the flood.
The bloodstain vanished from thy soft, white hand;
A beauty lingers round thee, all thine own,
A depth of sadness we may not withstand.
Touched by the painter's skill, down all the years;
The sweet appeal, the beauty, and the grace
Seen through a mist of sympathizing tears.