Pere-La-Chaise. {45} (Paris.)

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?