The Execution Of Louis Xvi Poem by Sheena Blackhall

This poem is based on the recollections of an eye witness called Leboucher, who arrived in Paris from Bourges in December,1792, and was present at the execution of Louis XVI. In 1840 he recounted to Victor Hugo most of these details.

The Execution of Louis XVI
In the Year II of the Republic, on a bitter winter's day
The scaffold of the mighty King of France
Was built between the pied d'estale and the Champs-Elysées.

What was this pedestal?
Why, the stone that once carried the statue of his father!
Did he look down to watch his son made martyr?

This place of horror has had many names
Place de Louis XV,
Place de la Revolution,
Place de la Concorde,
Place du Garde-Meuble,
Place des Champs-Elysées

The scaffold was raised a few steps from this stone,
A little behind it. A ladder without rails was at the back,
Facing the Garde-Meuble. Was ever a day so black?

A basket, covered with leather, would receive it,
The King's head, when it fell,
Caught after Madame Guillotine had severed it.

To the right of the ladder, for this autocrat
A wicker basket awaited the royal torso,
Here, one of the executioners, had tossed his hat

Four lines of armed men,
Held in check the empty square
In the midst of a baying crowd of Parisiens

To the left of the scaffold,
The Champs-Elysees, to the right the Tuileries,
With Paris full of black and leafless trees.

Under the bleak, funereal sky of a morning grey and wintry
The victim came, in the carriage of the Mayor of Paris,
White shirt, grey silk breeches, the Book of Psalms in his hands,
To keep his appointment with death in 1793.

King of a line of kings, trussed like a chicken
Doomed to be bedded between two layers of quicklime
Who at Versailles had sat on a throne of gold
Now facing a wicker coffin, a platform of pine.

The executioners numbered four;
Two to perform the gory execution
The third to stay at the foot of the scaffold ladder,
The fourth stood on the boards of the headsman's waggon

The executioners wore breeches, no lace or fine brocade
Coats in the French style
Three-cornered hats with huge tri-colour cockades.

It was decided that the King's hands
Should be tied behind his back
'Never! ' he cried, 'never! ' and pushed the man
Holding the rope, a gesture, not an attack

'With a handkerchief, Sire? ' the executioner suggested,
Louis XVI winced, the Abbé Edgeworth, to lessen
The horror said, "Son of St. Louis, ascend to heaven! "

'So be it, my God! ' the monarch held out his hands
His voice, drowned out by the drumming
Tied to a plank. He asked
Why the drums had stopped beating.

He exclaimed 'My people, I die innocent! '
The blade of the guillotine fell, both swift and brutal
The head of the king was shown to the people,
'Vive la Nation! Vive la République! ' was the shout
A gun salute rang out.

Blood trickled down the scaffold.
Two priests in the Mayor's carriage,
Were laughing and joking aloud
The king's coat was flung to the crowd
A thousand hands shredded it, uncontrolled

The end of 1,000 years of France's monarchy
In the name of Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité.