“Messieurs, le Dieu des peintres”: We felt odd: br 'Twas Rubens, sculptured. A mean florid church br Was the next thing we saw,—from vane to porch br His drivel. The museum: as we trod br Its steps, his bust held us at bay. The clod br Has slosh by miles along the wall within. br (“I say, I somehow feel my gorge begin br To rise.”)—His chair in a glass case, by God! br . . . To the Cathedral. Here too the vile snob br Has fouled in every corner. (“Wherefore brave br Our fate? Let's go.”) There is a monument br We pass. “Messieurs, you tread upon the grave br Of the great Rubens.