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. THE APOLLO GOD.