  Call it misfortune, crime, or what You will—his presence was a blot Where all was bright and fair— A blot that told its darksome tale And left its mark a blighting trail Behind him everywhere. * * * He stood by the Atlantic’s shore, And crossed the azure main, And even the sea, so blue before, About his wake grew dark and bore The semblance of a stain. On English soil he scarcely more Than paused his breath to gain; But on that fair historic shore There seemed to gather, as before, A darkness in his train. Through sunny France, across the line To Germany, and up the Rhine To Switzerland he came; Then o’er the snowy Alpine height, To leave a stain as black as night On Italy’s fair name. From Italy he crossed the blue, And hurried on as if he knew His journey’s end he neared. On Darkest Africa he threw A shade of even darker hue, Till in the sands of Timbuctoo His record disappeared. * * * Only an inkstand’s overflow, O Bumblebee! remains to show The source of your mishap; But though you’ve flown my ken beyond, The foot-notes of your tour du monde Still decorate my map. |
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