A Study of Hands: Lacenaire

Strange contrast was the severed handOf Lacenaire, the murderer dead,Soaked in a powerful essence, andNear by upon a cushion spread.

Letting a morbid fancy win,I touched, despite my loathing sane,The cold, hair-covered, slimy skin,Not yet washed clean of deathly stain.

Yellow, uncanny, mummified,Like to a Pharaoh's hand it lay,And stretched its faun-shaped fingers wide,Crisp with temptation's awful play;

As though an itch for flesh and goldLured them to horrors yet to be,Twisting them roughly as of old,Teasing their immobility.

There every vice and passion's whimHad seamed the flesh abundantlyWith hideous hieroglyphs and grim,That headsmen read with fluency.

There plainly writ in furrows fell,I saw the deeds of sin and soil,Scorchings from every fiery hellWherein corruptions seethe and boil.

There was a track of Capri's vice,Of lupanars and gaming-scores,Fretted with wine and blood and dice,Like ennui of old emperors.

Supple and fierce, it had some dowerOf grace unto the searching eye,Some brutal fascination's power,A gladiator's mastery.

Cold aristocracy of crime!No plane inured, no hammer spentThe hand whose task for every timeHad but the knife for implement.

The hand of Lacenaire! No clueTherein to labour's honest pride!False poet, and assassin true,The Manfred of the gutter died!