Mortimer Collins

Paris and Troy

WHERE is Paris, the beautiful city?
    Has it dissolved like a mirage wondrous,—
Its ladies bright and gallants witty,
    Passed like an earthquake shock from under us?
    Swept away by the onset thunderous
Of Teutons mad with the battle-joy?
    Fate and time from beauty sunder us:
Where is the famous city Troy?

Where is Napoleon? Where each captain
    Who rode in his steel-clad train but lately,
Every one rare visions rapt in
    Of a France that loomed o’er Europe greatly,
    Of a Gallic Empire, strong and stately,—
A baby-giant with war for a toy?
    Where do those phantoms march sedately?
But where is Hector who fought for Troy?

Where are the ladies who roamed at large in
    That sweet city, mid glee incessant,
Drinking wine of moist Marne margin
    Under the soft moon’s silver crescent,
    With lively laughter effervescent,
And gay love-games that are loath to cloy?
    Where is that ecstasy evanescent?
But where is Helen who loved in Troy?