Dead--he is dead! The rouge has left a trace br On that thin cheek where shone, perchance, a tear, br Even while the people laughed that held him dear br But yesterday. He died,--and not in grace, br And many a black-robed caitiff starts apace br To slander him whose Tartuffe made them fear, br And gold must win a passage for his bier, br And bribe the crowd that guards his resting-place. br br Ah, Moliere, for that last time of all, br Man's hatred broke upon thee, and went by, br And did but make more fair thy funeral.