'We shall soon lose a celebrated building.'
No, for I'll save it! Seven years since
I passed through Paris, stopped a day
To see the baptism of your Prince,
Saw, made my bow, and went my way:
Walking the heat and headache off,
I took the Seine-side, you surmise,
Thought of the Congress, Gortschakoff,
Cavour's appeal and Buol's replies,
So sauntered till--what met my eyes?
Only the Doric little Morgue!
The dead-house where you show your drowned:
Petrarch's Vaucluse makes proud the Sorgue,
Your Morgue has made the Seine renowned.
One pays one's debt in such a case;
I plucked up heart and entered,--stalked,
Keeping a tolerable face
Compared with some whose cheeks were chalked:
Let them! No Briton's to be balked!
First came the silent gazers; next,
A screen of glass, we're thankful for;
Last, the sight's self, the sermon's text,
The three men who did most abhor
Their life in Paris yesterday,
So killed themselves: and now, enthroned
Each on his copper couch, they lay
Fronting me, waiting to be owned.
I thought, and think, their sin's atoned.
Poor men, God made, and all for that!
The reverence struck me; o'er each head
Religiously was hung its hat,
Each coat dripped by the owner's bed,
Sacred from touch: each had his berth,
His bounds, his proper place of rest,
Who last night tenanted on earth
Some arch, where twelve such slept abreast,--
Unless the plain asphalt seemed best.
How did it happen, my poor boy?
You wanted to be Buonaparte
And have the Tuileries for toy,
And could not, so it broke your heart?
You, old one by his side, I judge,
Were, red as blood, a socialist,
A leveller! Does the Empire grudge
You've gained what no Republic missed?
Be quiet, and unclench your fist!
And this--why, he was red in vain,
Or black,--poor fellow that is blue !
What fancy was it, turned your brain?
Oh, women were the prize for you!
Money gets women, cards and dice
Get money, and ill-luck gets just
The copper couch and one clear nice
Cool squirt of water o'er your bust,
The right thing to extinguish lust!
It's wiser being good than bad;
It's safer being meek than fierce:
It's fitter being sane than mad.
My own hope is, a sun will pierce
The thickest cloud earth ever stretched;
That, after Last, returns the First,
Tho' a wide compass round be fetched;
That what began best, can't end worst,
Nor what God blessed once, prove accurst.
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Comments about this poem (Apparent Failure by Robert Browning )
Alfred Lord Tennyson
(6 August 1809 – 6 October 1892)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(26 March 1907 – 11 September 1987)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
- A Child's Christmas in Wales, Dylan Thomas
- No Man Is An Island, John Donne
- If, Rudyard Kipling
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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- Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost
- Clean And Cleanliness, gajanan mishra
- Ring Out , Wild Bells, Alfred Lord Tennyson
- Main neer bhari dukh ki badli, Mahadevi Varma
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