O Tombs! what virtues are yours! you appal the tyrant's heart, and
poison with secret alarm his impious joys; he flies, with coward step,
your incorruptible aspect, and erects afar his throne of insolence.




LONDON TRANSLATION.


INVOCATION.

Solitary ruins, sacred tombs, ye mouldering and silent walls, all hail!
To you I address my invocation. While the vulgar shrink from your aspect
with secret terror, my heart finds in the contemplation a thousand
delicious sentiments, a thousand admirable recollections. Pregnant, I
may truly call you, with useful lessons, with pathetic and irresistible
advice to the man who knows how to consult you. A while ago the whole
world bowed the neck in silence before the tyrants that oppressed it;
and yet in that hopeless moment you already proclaimed the truths that
tyrants hold in abhorrence: mixing the dust of the proudest kings with
that of the meanest slaves, you called upon us to contemplate this
example of Equality. From your caverns, whither the musing and anxious
love of Liberty led me, I saw escape its venerable shade, and with
unexpected felicity, direct its flight and marshal my steps the way to
renovated France.

Tombs! what virtues and potency do you exhibit! Tyrants tremble at your
aspect--you poison with secret alarm their impious pleasures--they turn