James and Mary Ford, eds. Every Day in the Year. 1902.
September 2The Sphinx of the Tuileries
By John Hay (1838–1905)
O
I came to the lofty door
Where the two marble Sphinxes guard
The Pavilon de Flore.
Two Cockneys stood by the gate, and one
Observed, as they turned to go,
“No wonder he likes that sort of thing,—
He’s a Sphinx himself, you know.”
In the sunset’s level fire,
Of the Charlatan whom the Frenchmen loathe
And the Cockneys all admire.
They call him a Sphinx,—it pleases him,—
And if we narrowly read,
We will find some truth in the flunkey’s praise,—
The man is a Sphinx indeed.
And face so debonair
Had the sleek false paws of a lion,
That could furtively seize and tear.
So far to the shoulders,—but if you took
The Beast in reverse you would find
The ignoble form of a craven cur
Was all that lay behind.
A silly riddle to read,
And when they failed she drank their blood
In cruel and ravenous greed.
But at last came one who knew her word,
And she perished in pain and shame,—
This bastard Sphinx leads the same base life
And his end will be the same.
With swelled feet limping on,
If they shout his true name once aloud
His false foul power is gone.
Afraid to fight and afraid to fly,
He cowers in an abject shiver;
The people will come to their own at last,—
God is not mocked forever.