Classic Poem

I .

At Paris, on the Champs Elysees,
I sat and read Pot-Bouille through,
Then felt like one whose lips are greasy
After some sorry kitchen-stew;
Then, putting Zola in my pocket,
I watched Napoleon's arc of fame —
Its open arch, like Death's eye-socket,
Flush'd with flame.

Beyond, the sun was sinking downward,
And from the race-course, past the gate,
Thousands were driving swiftly townward —
Some merry, some disconsolate;
While on the footpath gay crowds lingered
Watching the bright cortege flow by,
Lucifer pointed, fiery-fingered,
From the sky.

Herodias, by her lord attended,
Faustine alone, in landau blue,
La Gloria, with trappings splendid,
And Plutus in her retinue;
In their hired carriage, Mai and Mimi,
Light-coated lovers at their side;
Camille, consumption-mark'd and dreamy,
Hollow-eyed.

Then, all the glorious wedded ladies!
Prudish or bold, I saw them pass;
How like the rest whose busiest trade is
Done in the night beneath the gas!
Leaders of folly or of fashion,
With splendour robed, with roses crowned,
With eyes of prurience or of passion
Smiling round!

There, oiled and scented, white-waist-coated,
The jolly bourgeois, coarse and fat,
Lolled by his lady purple-throated
In velvet robes and feathered hat.
I stay'd, with Zola in my pocket,
And watched till they had come and gone,
Napoleon's arc, like Death's eye-socket,
Glaring on!

And all the foulness and obsceneness
Of dress and form, of face and look,
Answer'd the sadness and uncleanness
That I had gathered from the book.
My inmost soul was sick with Zola.
I thought of sins without a name,
I loathed the world, and thought the whole a
Sink of shame!

II .

Just as I rose, with sorrow laden,
Eager to leave the shameless sight,
I saw close by a little Maiden
Bareheaded in the sunset-light.
In muslin robe of snowy whiteness,
And one white lily in her hair,
She paused, her pale cheek flush'd to brightness,
Smiling there!

Her mother, who had brought her thither,
An ouvrieuse with travail bowed,
Stood waiting to wend homeward with her
Through the gay groups, the chattering crowd;
Watched by that mother sad and tender,
On the glad picture gazed the child;
Then, glancing at her own white splendour,
Proudly smiled.

Presently, with a sigh of gladness,
Turning, toward my seat she came,
So feeble and slow, I saw with sadness
She bore a crutch and she was lame;
She came still nearer with her mother,
And leaning on her crutch she stood;
One slender limb was sound, the other
Made of wood!

And on the sound foot, small and pretty,
One stocking white, one satin shoe!
My soul grew full of pain and pity,
My eyes were dim with tenderest dew;
But ah! her face was bright with pleasure,
Nor pained or peevish, sad or cross;
Her heart too full that day to measure
All her loss.

'Twas her first day of Confirmation;
And many a month before that day
The child, with eager expectation,
Had longed to wear that white array;
Then, that glad morning, in the City
She had wakened long before the light,
And stolen from bed, to seek her pretty
Robe of White.

And she had stood with many others —
Poor little lambs of the same fold
Watched fondly by their sad-eyed mothers,
'Neath the great Church's dome of gold;
And while the holy light caressed them
And solemn music went and came,
The bishop had approved and blessed them
In Christ's name!

While the pale mother sat beside me,
We talked together of the child,
Who, listening proudly, stood and eyed me
With soul astir and cheeks that smiled;
Bright as a flower that blooms in Eden
Fed with sweet dews and heavenly air;
Was that poor lily of a Maiden
Pure and fair.

And as I looked in loving wonder
The whole world brighten'd to my view,
The dark sad sod was cleft asunder
To let the flowers of light slip through;
And lilies bright and roses blowing
Dazzled my sense, while on mine ear
Came sounds of winds and waters flowing
Crystal clear!

III .

Down to the glad green Bois I wandered,
The sun shone down on sward and tree;
Around me, as I walked and pondered,
The children shouted merrily;
The lake was sparkling full of gladness.
The song of birds trilled clear and gay,
I listened, and the cloud of sadness
Stole away.

Then out I took, with fingers shrinking,
My Zola, poisonous like the snake,
And held him where the light was blinking
O'er leaves of lilies on the lake.
" Zola, my prophet of obsceneness,"
I murmured, " this at least is clear:
Who seeks may ever find uncleanness,
Even here.

" And yet God made the world, and in it
Caused buds of love and joy to bloom;
Voices of innocence each minute
Scatter the ravens of the tomb;
E'en from the dreariest dust of sorrow
Lilies of light may spring and shine,
And from the Heaven above them borrow
Hues divine.

" The glad deep music of Creation,
Abiding still though men depart,
Transcends the song of tribulation
Raised in your lazar-house of Art.
He who would hear it must, upleaping,
Face the full suntide of his Time,
Nor, on the muddy bottom creeping,
Search the slime!

" One lily, wheresoever blowing,
Can shame your sunless kitchen-weeds;
One flower of joy, though feebly growing,
Still justifies diviner creeds.
There may be Hell, with mischief laden,
There still is Heaven (look up and try!).
So that poor lily of a Maiden
Proves — you lie!"

I held him sunward for a minute,
Then loosening fingers set him free:
The water splashed; he vanished in it.
Down to the muddy depths went he.
The light flash'd out, no longer feeble,
The waters sparkled where he fell.
" Zola," I said, " enfant terrible ,
Fare-thee-well!"