PERE-LA-CHAISE.

I stood in Pere-la-Chaise. The putrid city,

Paris, the harlot of the nations, lay,

The bug-bright thing that knows not love nor pity,

Flashing her bare shame to the summer's day.

Here where I stand, they slew you, brothers, whom

Hell's wrongs unutterable had made as mad.

The rifle-shots re-echoed in his tomb,

The gilded scoundrel's who had been so glad.

O Morny, O blood-sucker of thy race!

O brain, O hand that wrought out empire that

The lust in one for power, for tinsel place,

Might rest; one lecher's hungry heart grow fat,—

Is it for nothing, now and evermore,

O you whose sin in life had death in ease,

The murder of your victims beats the door

Wherein your careless carrion lies at peace?