You made the raps? "T was your invention that? Cur, slave, and devil!"— eight fingers and two thumbs Well, if the marks seem gone, As you, sir! And I've lost you, Lost all, 1-1-1 lost myself, No - are you in earnest, sir? Oh, yours, sir, is an angel's part! I know What prejudice prompts, and what's the common course Men take to soothe their ruffled self-conceit : Only you rise superior to it all! No, sir, it don't hurt much; it's speaking long - one kiss O' the hand that saves me! You'll not let me speak, Your sainted Well, sir, be it so! That 's, I think, My bedroom candle. Good-night! Bl-l-less you, sir! R-r-r, you brute-beast and blackguard! Cowardly scamp! I only wish I dared burn down the house And spoil your sniggering! Oh, what, you 're the man? You 're satisfied at last? You've found out Sludge? We'll see that presently: my turn, sir, next! I too can tell my story: brute, five, do hear? you You throttled your sainted mother, that old hag, In just such a fit of passion: no, it was To get this house of hers, and many a note Like these I'll pocket them, however Ten, fifteen ay, you gave her throat the twist, Or else you poisoned her! Confound the cuss! Where was my head? I ought to have prophesied He'll die in a year and join her: that's the way. I don't know where my head is: what had I done? And called me cheat: I thrashed him, who could help? I do so, and once off, he slanders me. APPARENT FAILURE. "We shall soon lose a celebrated building. No, for I 'li save it! I. Paris Newspaper. Seven years since, I took the Seine-side, you surmise, II. 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. pays one's debt in such a case; One I plucked up heart and entered, — stalked, Compared with some whose cheeks were chalked : III. First came the silent gazers; next, The three men who did most abhor Their life in Paris yesterday, So killed themselves and now, enthroned Each on his copper couch, they lay Fronting me, waiting to be owned. I thought, and think, their sin 's atoned. IV. Poor men, God made, and all for that! Each coat dripped by the owner's bed, Some arch, where twelve such slept abreast, Unless the plain asphalte seemed best. V. How did it happen, my poor boy? And have the Tuileries for toy, And could not, so it broke your heart? You, old one by his side, I judge, Were, red as blood, a socialist, A leveller! Does the Empire grudge Or black, VI. your fist! why, he was red in vain, poor fellow that is blue! VII. It's wiser being good than bad ; It's fitter being sane than mad. My own hope is, a sun will pierce The thickest cloud earth ever stretched; EPILOGUE. FIRST SPEAKER, as David. 1. On the first of the Feast of Feasts, When the Levites joined the Priests II. When the thousands, rear and van, (Look, gesture, thought and word) III. When the singers lift up their voice, Saying, "In Him rejoice IV. Then the Temple filled with a cloud, Porch bent and pillar bowed: In the glory of His cloud, Had filled the House of the Lord. SECOND SPEAKER, as Renan. Gone now ! All gone across the dark so far, Sharpening fast, shuddering ever, shutting still, Dwindling into the distance, dies that star Which came, stood, opened once! We gazed our fill With upturned faces on as real a Face That, stooping from grave music and mild fire, Took in our homage, made a visible place Through many a depth of glory, gyre on gyre, For the dim human tribute. Was this true? Could man indeed avail, mere praise of his, To help by rapture God's own rapture too, Thrill with a heart's red tinge that pure pale bliss ? Why did it end? Who failed to beat the breast, And shriek, and throw the arms protesting wide, When a first shadow showed the star addressed Itself to motion, and on either side The rims contracted as the rays retired; The music, like a fountain's sickening pulse, Subsided on itself; awhile transpired Some vestige of a Face no pangs convulse, Venture to probe again the vault bereft But where may hide what came and loved our clay? How shall the sage detect in yon expanse The star which chose to stoop and stay for us? Nor doubt that, were mankind inert and numb, Sad sway of sceptre whose mere touch appalls, |