After the French Liberation of Italy
AS when the last of the paid joys of love
Has come and gone; and with a single kiss
At length, and with one laugh of satiate bliss,
The wearied man a minute rests above
The wearied woman, no more urged to move
In those long throes of longing, till they glide,
Now lightlier clasped, each to the other’s side,
In joys past acting, not past dreaming of:—
So Europe now beneath this paramour
Lies for a little out of use,—full oft
Submissive to his lust, a loveless whore.
He wakes, she sleeps, the breath falls slow and soft.
Wait: the bought body holds a birth within,
An harlot’s child, to scourge her for her sin.
