Chapter II: Lacenaire

Strange contrast was the severed hand Of Lacenaire, the murderer dead, Soaked in a powerful essence, and Near by upon a cushion spread.

Letting a morbid fancy win, I touched, despite my loathing sane, The cold, hair-covered, slimy skin, Not yet washed clean of deathly stain.

Yellow, uncanny, mummified, Like to a Pharaoh's hand it lay, And stretched its faun-shaped fingers wide, Crisp with temptation's awful play;

As though an itch for flesh and gold Lured them to horrors yet to be, Twisting them roughly as of old, Teasing their immobility.

There every vice and passion's whim Had seamed the flesh abundantly With hideous hieroglyphs and grim, That headsmen read with fluency.

There plainly writ in furrows fell, I saw the deeds of sin and soil, Scorchings from every fiery hell Wherein corruptions seethe and boil.

There was a track of Capri's vice, Of lupanars and gaming-scores, Fretted with wine and blood and dice, Like ennui of old emperors.

Supple and fierce, it had some dower Of grace unto the searching eye, Some brutal fascination's power, A gladiator's mastery.

Cold aristocracy of crime! No plane inured, no hammer spent The hand whose task for every time Had but the knife for implement.

The hand of Lacenaire! No clue Therein to labour's honest pride! False poet, and assassin true, The Manfred of the gutter died!

VARIATIONS ON THE CARNIVAL OF VENICE