J. Truffier

Translated by Andrew Lang

DEAD—he is dead! The rouge has left a trace

On that thin cheek where shone, perchance, a tear,

Even while the people laughed that held him dear

But yesterday. He died,—and not in grace,

And many a black-robed caitiff starts apace

To slander him whose Tartuffe made them fear,

And gold must win a passage for his bier,

And bribe the crowd that guards his resting-place.

Ah, Molière, for that last time of all,

Man’s hatred broke upon thee, and went by,

And did but make more fair thy funeral.

Though in the dark they hid thee stealthily,

Thy coffin had the cope of night for pall,

For torch, the stars along the windy sky!