What if the boulevards， at set of sun，

Reddened， but not with sunset's kindly glow？

What if from quai and square the murmured woe

Swept heavenward， pleadingly？ The prize was won，

A kingling made and Liberty undone.

No Emperor， this， like him awhile ago，

But his Name's shadow； that one struck the blow

Himself， and sighted the street-sweeping gun！

This was a man of tortuous heart and brain，

So warped he knew not his own point of view——

The master of a dark， mysterious smile.

And there he plotted， by the storied Seine

And in the fairy gardens of St. Cloud，

The Sphinx that puzzled Europe， for awhile.