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.