Of just exactly what do things consist?
So deep the order you so deeply sought!
Of “simple substances” you made a list,
And wrote the first book from which chemists taught.
Though several on your list of thirty-three,
Like “heat” and “light,” we find ourselves unable
To countenance, with two-thirds we agree
So well they’re in our own periodic table.
You’d have seen more (how much we do not know),
But deep’ning social chaos closed your eyes;
When wild the winds of revolution blow,
They scorn to tell the vicious from the wise.
“France has no need of geniuses,” they said;
And in their frenzy—cut off your head.