XX.

Now, from the Mount!—Through solid dust we sweep,
Chok'd, crushing, struggling to wile back our sleep.
The barrier's reach'd—out rolls the drowsy guard;
A scowl—a question—and the gate's unbarr'd.
And this is Paris! The postillion's thong
Rings round a desert, as we bound along,
Onward, still darker, doubly desolate,
Winds o'er the shrinking head the dangerous strait.
The light is lost; in vain we peer our way
Through the rank dimness of the Fauxbourg day;
In vain the wearied eyeball strains to scale
That squalid height, half hovel and half jail:
At every step the struggling vision bar
Projections sudden, black, and angular,
Streak'd with what once was gore, deep rent with shot,
Marks of some conflict furious and—forgot!
At every step, from sewer and alley sail
The crossing steams that make the senses quail,
Defying breeze's breath and summer's glow,
Charter'd to hold eternal mire below,

Grim loneliness!—and yet some blasted form
Will start upon the sight, a human worm,
Clung to the chapel's wall—the lank throat bare,
The glance shot woeful from the tangled hair,
The fleshless, outstretch'd arm, and ghastly cry,
Half forcing, half repelling charity.
Or, from the portal of the old hotel,
Gleams on his post the victor-centinel,
Briton or German, shooting round his ken,
From its dark depth, a lion from his den.

'Tis light and air again: and lo! the Seine,
The Frenchman's boast, yon lazy, livid drain!
With bridges, shaking to the foot, o'erlaid,
Booths for its barges, painted trees its shade.
Yet here are living beings, and the soil
Breeds its old growth of ribaldry and broil.
A whirl of mire, the dingy cabriolet
Makes the quick transit through the crowded way;
On spurs the courier, creaks the crazy wain,
Dragg'd through its central mud by might and main,
Around our way-laid wheels the paupers crowd,
With every vileness of man's nature bow'd.
The whole a mass of folly, woe, and strife,
Of heated, rank, corrupting, reptile life:
And, endless as their ouzy tide, the throng
Roll on with endless clamour, curse, and song.

Fit for such tenants, low'r on either side
The hovels where the gang less live than hide;
Story on story, savage stone on stone,
Time-shatter'd, tempest-stain'd, less built than thrown.
Sole empress of the portal, in full blow,
The rouged grisette lays out her trade below,
Ev'n in her rags a thing of wit and wile,
Eye, hand, lip, tongue, all point, and press, and smile.
Close by, in patch and print, the pedlar's stall
Flutters its looser glories up the wall.
Spot of corruption! where the rabble rude
Loiter round tinsel tomes, and figures nude;
Voltaire, and Laïs, long alternate eyed,
Till both the leper's soul and sous divide.
Above, 'tis desert, save where sight is scar'd
With the wild visage through the casement barr'd.

But, venture on the darkness; and within
See the stern haunt of wretchedness and sin.
The door unhinged, for winter's bitterest air,
The paper pane, the gapp'd and shaking stair,
Winding in murkiness, as to the sty
Of guilt forlorn, or base debauchery;
The chamber, tatter'd, melancholy, old,
Yet large—where plunder might its midnights hold;
And in its foulest corner, from the day
Sullen and shrunk, its lord, the Federé.
Meagre the form, the visage swart and spare,
Furrow'd with early vice and desperate care;
Hollow the cheek, the eye ferocious guile,
Yet gentle to his hard, habitual smile.
His end on earth, to live the doubtful day,
And glean the livre for the Sunday's play.
Heavy that chamber's air; the sunbeams fall
Scatter'd and sickly on the naked wall;
Through the time-crusted casement scarcely shown
The rafter'd roof, the floor of chilling stone,
The crazy bed, the mirror that betrays
Frameless, where vanity yet loves to gaze;
And still, the symbols of his darker trade,
The musquet, robber-pistol, sabre blade,
Hung rusting, where around the scanty fire
His squalid offspring watch its brands expire.
His glance is there;—another, statelier spot
Has full possession of his fever'd thought;
In the fierce past the fierce to-come he sees,
The day return'd of plunder'd palaces,
When faction revell'd, mobs kept thrones in awe,
And the red pike at once was king and law.

XXI.

Yet, contrast strange! beside that dismal cell
Tow'rs on the eye the Seigneur's proud hotel.
Repelling too, no waste of outward state
Here told th' exclusive pleasures of the great;
Yet, in those bounds, the cup of luxury
Was brimm'd as rich as e'er made midnight fly.
Beauty and pomp were in its festal hall,
Gay valour, courtly wit, youth, passion, all.
Sight of enchantment,—down its vista's blaze
Of gold and jewel-vestured forms to gaze!
One buoyant, brilliant dance of tress and plume
Gleaming o'er eyes of light, and cheeks of bloom.
Nor lovely less, to turn, where through the shade
Faint from the glow, the groupes of beauty stray'd;
The suite of silent, stately chambers past,
In each the distant radiance feebler cast;
In each the concert's sweetness softer sent;
Till on the burning cheek, new element,
New life was breathed in night's delicious air,
Streaming from violet bank and rose parterre.
Heart-swelling hour! On her profoundest sky
In glory throned, the moon's lone majesty;
From that huge, slumbering city sent no sound;
Above, all brightness; soul-felt silence, round!
Save where, as sudden opes the distant hall,
Faint as its light, the tones in sweetness fall,
A breath of harp and flute, a silver sigh,
A wild, swift touch, of fairy harmony;
Save where the fountain murmuring in its shell
With the far concert's murmurs mixeth well.

But pass the porch, and all was past:—the wall,
Long, blank, surmounted by the turret tall;
The loophole, massive buttress, thund'ring gate
That shuts upon the world the court of state;
The casement dim, with bar and bolt secured,
The sculptured shield, the high roof embrazured,
Strike to the stranger's eye the sudden thrill,
And give the felon and his dungeon still.