VI

But, now and then, a form goes gliding by

Such as might hover round a poet's dream;
The cheek of rose, the large, the laughing eye,
As blue as heaven-heaven in its beam!

Lips that were made to smile, and make us sigh-
And limbs-but these might lead me from my theme:
In short, near such the French look sometimes sooty,
And Britain is again my land of beauty!

VII

And, tho' our countrymen dress well in general,
Some naturally lead us to suppose

(With faces that would compliment a funeral)

They come to Paris to wear out old clothes:
The natives might be led to think our men are all
As shabby as themselves, to judge by those.
Some sport outrageous fashions out of date—
"Lax in their gaiters, laxer in their gait."

VIII

But STULTZ Sometimes exports a dandy over

Or, in more modern phrase, an exquisite,
(Being delicate they always cross by Dover)

To show us exiles how a coat should fit.

Now don't mistake, or think I mean to cover
This cast with ridicule-O, far from it!

I'm told they're lady-like and harmless creatures,
With something of hermaphroditish features.

IX

I like to look at them! the cheek of cream,
Too soft for love, or wine, or war, or mirth, to
Disturb into expression: eyes whose beam

Is delicate as wax-light: voice for earth too
Dulcet by half: such beings as, 'twould seem,
A maiden lady might have given birth to,
Without once erring from her frigid strada,
Or flirting with a soul, except her shadow.

X

You'll know one by its stays, screw spurs, perhaps

A lewd-sketch'd box that music, and not snuff, fills—

To show the diamond-finger off that taps:

Its
puny chest bulged out with vests and ruffles,
As if 'twere furnished, like the sphinx, with paps-
But still more like a turkey stuff'd with truffles.
Pshaw! 'stead of heaving sail thus rigg'd to roam,
I wish those apes in stays would stay at home.

XI

But this is to my subject most disloyal,

Which has been cooling all this time. Well then,

Here let us enter-not the Palais Royal

Itself can boast a blacker baser den ;*

Where those who throng to play are rather shy all,

Tho', now and then, mix'd up with ribbond men: (4) And oft Squire Bullsegg very slily goes,—

For here he'll seldom meet a soul he knows.

* No. 109.

XII

Nay, desperate Want itself comes here to game,

Altho' the turning of a card may be

As death: look on him! woman's grief were tame
Beside that speechless stare of agony.

The vilest passions which the heart inflame

Run riot in their brute ferocity;

And joy and anguish wear the ruffian die,
With all to wound the ear, and shock the eye.

XIII

And oft, a looker on the scene alone,

(For, tho' you smile in doubt, 'tis not less true,)
My heart hath quailed to hear that horrid tone,
Half sigh, half sob-the deep-breath'd" Sacré Dieu !"
Burst from a luckless wretch with eye of stone,
Convulsive cheek, and lip of death's own hue;
Throbbed as he broke away, to madness wrought,
Perhaps but fancy shudders at the thought!

XIV

Yet, whoso visited the Morgue next morn (5)
Had found, it might be, from the Seine's dull tide
Already dragged, a sight that well might warn—-
Stretched on his back the ghastly suicide!

His eye unclosed; his garments, stained and torn,
Hung from the drear and dripping wall, to guide
Some idle glance; perhaps, to fix upon

The cold stark features of a sire or son!

XV

Here let us blot a falsehood! Why should France Impeach our name in dull malignity,

And toil to fix a stain from which, perchance,

Her harden'd heartless self is far less free? (6)

No land on earth could give the shrinking glance

So deep a catalogue of blood as she:

O, 'tis not wise to show this jealous hate,

Yet leave such weapons to retaliate.