"The world-old Fair of Vanity
Since Bunyan's day has grown discreeter
No more it flocks in crowds to see
A blazing Paul or Peter.
"Not that a single inch it swerves
From hate of saint or love of sinner,
But martyrs shock aesthetic nerves,
And spoil the goût of dinner.
"Raise but a shout, or flaunt a scarf,—
Its mobs are all agog and flying;
They 'll cram the levee of a dwarf,
And leave a Haydon dying.
"They live upon each newest thing,
They fill their idle days with seeing;
Fresh news of courtier and of king
Sustains their empty being.
"The statelier, from year to year,
Maintain their comfortable stations
At the wide windows that o'erpeer
The public square of nations;
"While through it heaves, with cheers and groans,
Harsh drums of battle in the distance,
Frightful with gallows, ropes, and thrones,
The medley of existence;
"Amongst them tongues are wagging much:
Hark to the philosophic sisters!
To his, whose keen satiric touch,
Like the Medusa, blisters!
"All things are made for talk,—St. Paul;
The pattern of an altar cushion;
A Paris wild with carnival,
Or red with revolution.
"And much they knew, that sneering crew,
Of things above the world and under:
They search'd the hoary deep; they knew
The secret of the thunder;
"The pure white arrow of the light
They split into its colours seven;
They weighed the sun; they dwelt, like night,
Among the stars of heaven;