noon
The shops are closed , -- the people are gorged with gore , and will lap no more . And night after night , to the eighty theatres flock the children of the Revolution , to laugh at the quips of comedy , and weep gentle tears over imaginary woes ! In a small chamber , in the heart of the city , sits the mother , watching over her child . It is quiet , happy noon ; the sunlight , broken by the tall roofs in the narrow street , comes yet through the open casement , the impartial playfellow of the air , gleesome alike in temple and prison , hall and hovel ; as golden and as blithe , whether it laugh over the first hour of life , or quiver in its gay delight on the terror and agony of the last ! The child , where it lay at the feet of Viola , stretched out its dimpled hands as if to clasp the dancing motes that revelled in the beam . The mother turned her eyes from the glory ; it saddened her yet more . She turned and sighed .