1.
All the gods of love are shouting
In my heart, and blowing airy
Flourishes, and crying: “Hail!
“Hail, thou mighty queen Pomare!”
Not the queen of Otaheite
Whom ’twas missionaries’ duty
To convert; no, she I mean
Is a wild untutor’d beauty.
Twice in every week appears she,
All her subjects quite entrancing
In that dear Jardin Mabille,
Waltzes and the polka dancing.
Majesty in all her footsteps,
Grace and beauty ne’er forsake her,
Quite a princess every inch,
Whichsoever way you take her.
Thus she dances—gods of love are
In my heart all blowing airy
Flourishes, and crying: “Hail!
“Hail, thou mighty queen Pomare!”
2.
She dances. How her figure sways!
What grace her every limb displays!
There’s as much flitting, leaping, swinging,
As if she from her skin were springing.
She dances. When she twirls with skill
Upon one foot, and then stands still
At last with both her arms extended,
My very reason seems suspended.
She dances. ’Tis the very same
That once Herodias’ daughter came
And danced to Herod. As she dances,
Her eye casts round it deadly glances.
She’ll dance me frantic. Woman, say,
What shall be thy reward to-day?
Thou smil’st? Quick, herald! to the gateway
Decapitate the Baptist straightway!
3.
Yesterday for very bread,
In the mire she wallowèd;
But to-day, with pride o’erbearing,
In her carriage takes an airing.
On its silken cushions she
Rests her head, and haughtily
Looks upon the thronging masses
Whom on foot her carriage passes.
When I see thee travelling so,
Then my heart is fill’d with woe!
Ah, this carriage,—so prepare thee,—
To the hospital will bear thee,
Where unfeeling cruel death
Soon will take away thy breath,
And the student, with coarse greasy
Prentice hand, so free and easy,
Will cut up thy body fair
Anatomically there;
And at Montfaucon thy horses
At the knacker’s end their courses.
4.
Thou hast been by fate befriended
Better than at first I said;
God be praised, all now is ended!
God be praised, and thou art dead!
In thy poor and agèd mother’s
Garret thou at length didst die.
She, with love beyond all others,
Closed thy fair eyes tenderly.
She a winding-sheet bought duly,
And a coffin, and a grave;
Somewhat close and wretched truly
Was the funeral that they gave.
No priests at that funeral lonely
Sang, no bell toll’d mournfully;
Thy friseur and poodle only
As thy mourners follow’d thee.
“Ah!” the former sigh’d: “I often
“Used to comb Pomare’s hair,
“And her long black tresses soften,
“Sitting in her easy chair!”
But the dog,—away he scamper’d
At the churchyard gate anon,
And was lodged and fed and pamper’d
Afterwards by Rose Pompon.
She, the Provençaler, grudged thee
Thy hard-earnèd name of queen,
As a hated rival judged thee,
Made thee victim of her spleen.
Ah, poor queen of jests diurnal,
With thy mud crown on thy head,
Thou art saved by God’s eternal
Goodness, thou at last art dead.
As thy mother, so thy Father
Mercy show’d thee from above;
This He did, methinks, the rather
In that thou so much didst love.