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I do so, and once off, he slanders me!
“We shall soon lose a celebrated building."
No, for I 'll save it! Seven years since,
I passed through Paris, stopped a day To see the baptism of your Prince ;
Saw, made my bow, and went my way: Walking the heat and headache off,
I took the Seine-side, you surmise, Thought of the Congress, Gortschakoff,
Cavour's appeal and Buol's replies, So sauntered till — what met my eyes ?
Only the Doric little Morgue !
The dead-house where you show your drowned : Petrarch's Vaucluse makes proud the Sorgue,
Your Morgue has made the Seine renowned.
One pays one's debt in such a case ;
I plucked up heart and entered, — stalked, Keeping a tolerable face
Compared with some whose cheeks were chalked: Let them! No Briton's to be balked !
First came the silent gazers ; next,
A screen of glass, we're thankful for ; Last, the sight's self, the sermon's text,
The three men who did most abhor Their life in Paris yesterday,
So killed themselves : and now, enthroned
Fronting me, waiting to be owned.
Poor men, God made, and all for that!
The reverence struck me ; o'er each head Religiously was hung its hat,
Each coat dripped by the owner's bed, Sacred from touch : each had his berth,
His bounds, his proper place of rest,