Approchez-vous ; ceci, c\u2019est le tas des d\u00e9vots.
\nCela hurle en grin\u00e7ant un benedicat vos ;
\nC\u2019est laid, c\u2019est vieux, c\u2019est noir. Cela fait des gazettes.
\nP\u00e8res fouetteurs du si\u00e8cle, \u00e0 grands coups de garcettes
\nIls nous m\u00e8nent au ciel. Ils font, bl\u00eames grimauds,
\nDe l\u2019\u00e2me et de J\u00e9sus des querelles de mots,
\nComme \u00e0 Byzance au temps des Jeans et des Eudoxes.
\nM\u00e9fions-nous ; ce sont des gredins orthodoxes.
\nIls auraient fait pousser des cris \u00e0 Juv\u00e9nal.
\nLa douairi\u00e8re aux yeux gris s\u2019\u00e9bat sur leur journal,
\nComme sur les marais la grue et la b\u00e9casse.
\nIls citent Poquelin, Pascal, Rousseau, Boccace,
\nVoltaire, Diderot l\u2019aigle au vol in\u00e9gal,
\nDevant l\u2019official et le th\u00e9ologal.
\nL\u2019esprit \u00e9tant g\u00eanant, ces saints le cong\u00e9dient.
\nIls mettent Escobar sous bande et l\u2019exp\u00e9dient
\nAux bedeaux rayonnants, pour quatre francs par mois.
\nAvec le vieux savon des j\u00e9suites sournois
\nIls lavent notre \u00e9poque incr\u00e9dule et pensive,
\nEt le b\u00fbcher fournit sa cendre \u00e0 leur lessive.
\nLeur gazette, o\u00f9 les mots de venin sont verdis,
\nEst la seule qui soit re\u00e7ue au paradis.
\nIls sont, l\u00e0, tout-puissants ; et tandis que leur bande
\nPr\u00eache ici-bas la d\u00eeme et d\u00e9fend la pr\u00e9bende,
\nIls font chez J\u00e9hovah la pluie et le beau temps.
\nL\u2019ange au glaive de feu leur ouvre \u00e0 deux battants
\nLa porte bienheureuse, effrayante et vermeille ;
\nTous les matins, \u00e0 l\u2019heure o\u00f9 l\u2019oiseau se r\u00e9veille,
\nQuand l\u2019aube, se dressant au bord du ciel profond,
\nRougit en regardant ce que les hommes font,
\nEt que des pleurs de honte emplissent sa paupi\u00e8re,
\nGais, ils grimpent l\u00e0-haut, et, cognant chez saint-Pierre,
\nJettent \u00e0 ce portier leur journal impudent.
\nIls \u00e9crivent \u00e0 Dieu comme \u00e0 leur intendant,
\nCritiquant, gourmandant, et lui demandant compte
\nDes r\u00e9volutions, des vents, du flot qui monte,
\nDe l\u2019astre au pur regard qu\u2019ils voudraient voir loucher,
\nDe ce qu\u2019il fait tourner notre terre et marcher
\nNotre esprit, et, d\u2019un timbre ornant l\u2019eucharistie,
\nIls cachettent leur lettre immonde avec l\u2019hostie.
\nJamais marquis, voyant son carrosse broncher,
\nN\u2019a plus superbement tutoy\u00e9 son cocher ;
\nSi bien que, ne sachant comment mener le monde,
\nCe pauvre vieux bon Dieu, sur qui leur foudre gronde,
\nTremblant, cherchant un trou dans ses cieux \u00e9clatants,
\nNe sait o\u00f9 se fourrer quand ils sont m\u00e9contents.
\nIls ont supprim\u00e9 Rome ; ils auraient d\u00e9truit Sparte.
\nCes dr\u00f4les sont charm\u00e9s de monsieur Bonaparte.<\/p>\n
Bruxelles, janvier 1852.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"parent":0,"template":"","meta":{"inline_featured_image":false,"site-sidebar-layout":"default","site-content-layout":"","ast-site-content-layout":"default","site-content-style":"default","site-sidebar-style":"default","ast-global-header-display":"","ast-banner-title-visibility":"","ast-main-header-display":"","ast-hfb-above-header-display":"","ast-hfb-below-header-display":"","ast-hfb-mobile-header-display":"","site-post-title":"","ast-breadcrumbs-content":"","ast-featured-img":"","footer-sml-layout":"","ast-disable-related-posts":"","theme-transparent-header-meta":"default","adv-header-id-meta":"","stick-header-meta":"default","header-above-stick-meta":"","header-main-stick-meta":"","header-below-stick-meta":"","astra-migrate-meta-layouts":"set","ast-page-background-enabled":"default","ast-page-background-meta":{"desktop":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-4)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"tablet":{"background-color":"","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"mobile":{"background-color":"","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""}},"ast-content-background-meta":{"desktop":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-5)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"tablet":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-5)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"mobile":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-5)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""}}},"annee":[440],"poems-book":[439],"poemes-theme":[],"poete":[206],"class_list":["post-9051","poemes","type-poemes","status-publish","hentry","annee-440","poems-book-les-chatiments","poete-victor-hugo"],"yoast_head":"\n