Monsieur D'Alveron. An Incident, Founded On Fact Poem by Martin Farquhar Tupper

Poor Monsieur d'Alveron! I well remember
The day I visited his ruinous cot,
And heard the story of his fallen fortunes.
It was a fine May morning, and the flowers
Spread their fair faces to the laughing sun,
And look'd like small terrestrial stars, that beam'd
With life and joy; the merry lark was high
Careering in the heavens, and now and then
A throstle from the neighbouring thicket pour'd
His musical and hearty orisons.
The cot too truly told that poverty
Found it a home with misery and scorn:
No clambering jessamine, no well-train'd roses
There linger'd, like sweet charity, to hide
The rents unseemly of the plaster'd wall;
No tight trimm'd rows of box, or daisy prim,
Mark'd a clean pathway through the miry clay;
But all around was want and cold neglect.
With curious hand, (and heart that beat with warm
Benevolence,) -- I knock'd, and lifted the latch
And in the language of his mother-land
Besought a welcome; quick with courteous phrase,
And joy unfeign'd to hear his native tongue,
He bade me enter.-- 'Twas a ruin'd hovel;
Dsease and penury had done their worst
To hunt a wretched exile to despair,
But still with spirit unbroken he lived on,
And with a Frenchman's national levity
Bounded elastic from his weight of woes.
I listed long his fond garrulity,
For sympathy and confidence are aye
Each other's echoes, and I won his heart
By pitying his sorrows; long he told
Of friends, and wife, and darling little ones,
Fortune, and title, and long-cherish'd hopes
By frenzied Revolution marr'd and crush'd:
But oft my patience flicker'd, and my eye
Wander'd inquisitive round the murky room
To see wherein I best might mitigate
The misery my bosom bled to view.
I sat upon his crazy couch, and there
With many sordid rags, a roebuck's skin
Show'd sleek and mottled: swift the clear grey eye
Of the poor sufferer had mark'd my wonder,
And as in simple guise this touching tale
He told me, in the tongue his youth had loved,
Many a tear stole down his wrinkled cheek.

'Yon glossy skin is all that now remains
To tell me that the past is not a dream!
Oft up my chateau's avenue of limes
To be caress'd in mine ancestral hall
Poor
'Louis'
bounded, (I had call'd him Louis,
Because I loved my king);-- my little ones
Have on his rounded antlers often hung
Their garlands of spring flowers, and fed him with
Sweet heads of clover from their darling hands.
But on a sorrowful day a random shot
Of some bold thief, or well skill'd forester,
Struck him to death, and many a tear and sob
Were the unwritten epitaph upon him.
The children would not lose him utterly,
But pray'd to have his mottled beautiful skin
A rug to their new pony-chaise, that they
Might oftener think of their lost favourite:
Ay -- there it is! -- that precious treasury
Of fond remembrances,-- that glossy skin!
O thou chief solace in the wintry nights
That warms my poor old heart, and thaws my breast
With tears of -- Mais, Monsieur, asseyez-vous!'--
But I had started up, and turn'd aside
To weep in solitude.--