The Winged Beetle

116 THE ARCHÆOLOGIST I am like a pilgrim ; the blue-faced baboons Of Christ receive him ; he prostrates him, swoons In rapture ; slobbers on some leprous piece Of flesh torn from Saint Damien—prestigious ! Yet, that were relic of an holy man, And thou the carcass of a courtesan ! Beneath my seas thy creaking timbers tremble, Gallant old barque ! I shake thee, stem and stern, With furious kisses in blind rage at Time Who hath wrought on thee his cold and common crime. So now I rise, laughing with love, and burn ! Those dissolute embers of thy lust grown dun, The ashen horrors of thy face, resemble The dull red glare of a November sun.