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Poem by Andrew Lang


The Burial of Moliere


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, Moliere, 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!



Andrew Lang


Andrew Lang's other poems:
  1. In Ithaca
  2. Les Roses de Sâdi
  3. Ballade of His Books
  4. Ballade of the Tweed
  5. Dizain


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