Classic Poem

Behind a glass, all in a ghastly row,
We here behold the loathsome pauper dead;
Sick at the sight, our horror bids us go;
We shudder, start, we turn away the head.

Shocked and disgusted at those staring eyes,
Those blue-white brows, lips withered, pinched and brown,
We quail at hideous Death without disguise,
And like a leaden lump our hearts sink down.

And yet, poor creatures, you have loved and laughed,
And known Parisian glory in your prime;
The cup of passion and of mirth you quaffed,
Before the days you fell to want and crime.

Old woman, in your girlhood long ago,
Some lover's fingers fondled through your hair;
He breathed sweet words no other ears might know,
And clasped you close, and swore that you were fair.

Old man, your mother would not know you now, —
Her blue-eyed boy is now a shocking sight! —
God! who would think a man could fall so low,
That such a dawn could die in such a night?

Young woman, trusting hearts are seldom wise!
You here forsaken in the Morgue alone?
Man's sweetest vows are oft but honeyed lies;
Youth's tender heart may sometimes turn to stone!

Young man, you loudly swore to win the race;
Hither you came in all your boyhood bloom;
See, glorious Paris turns away her face,
And leaves you in the horror of this tomb!

O Paris, Paris, you have slain them all,
Your foolish lovers, snared within your spell;
You sit enthroned, robed in a funeral pall,
Your face a heaven, and your heart a hell!