There, in Griselda's hands, Young Jerry Manton lay with the last sands Of his life's hour-glass trickling to its close, Griselda watching, with what thoughts, God knows. We did not speak. But her lips moved in prayer, And mine too, in the way of man's despair. I did not love him, yet a human pity Softened my eyes. Afar, from the great city, The sound came to us of the eternal hum, Unceasing, changeless, pregnant with all doom Of insolent life that rises from its streets, The pulse of sin which ever beats and beats, Wearying the ears of God. O Paris, Paris! What doom is thine for every soul that tarries Too long with thee, a stranger in thy arms. Thy smiles are incantations, thy brave charms Death to thy lovers. Each gay mother's son, Smitten with love for thee, is straight undone. And lo the chariot wheels upon thy ways! And a new garland hung in _Père la Chaise_! Poor soul! I turned and looked into the night, Through the uncurtained windows, and there bright Saw the mute twinkle of a thousand stars. One night! the least in all time's calendars, Yet fraught with what a meaning for this one! One star, the least of all that million! One room in that one city! Yet for him The universe there was of space and time. What were his thoughts? In that chaotic soul, Home of sad jests, obscene, unbeautiful, Mired with the earthiest of brute desires, And lit to sentience only with lewd fires, Was there no secret, undisturbed, fair place Watered with love and favoured with God's grace To which the wounded consciousness had fled For its last refuge from a world of dread? Was his soul touched to tenderness, to awe, To softer recollection? All we saw Was the maimed body gasping forth its breath, A rigid setting of the silent teeth, And the hands trembling. Death was with us there. But where was he--O Heaven of pity! where?