In his tall senatorial
Black and manorial
House where decoy-duck
Dust doth clack —
Clatter and quack
To a shadow black —
Said the musty Justice Mompesson:
“What is that dark stark beating drum
That we hear rolling like the sea?”
Signed by you.” “I signed not one.”
They took the ragged drum that we
Once heard rolling like the sea;
In the house of the Justice it must lie
And usher in Eternity.
. . . . . . .
Is it black night?
Black as Hecate howls a star
Wolfishly, and whined
The wind from very far.
In the pomp of the Mompesson house is one
Candle that lolls like the midnight sun,
Or the coral comb of a cock; … it rocks. …
Only the goatish snow’s locks
Watch the candles lit by fright
One by one through the black night.
Through the kitchen there runs a hare —
Whinnying, whines like grass, the air;
It passes; now is standing there
A lovely lady … see her eyes —
Black angels in a heavenly place,
Her shady locks and her dangerous grace.
“I thought I saw the wicked old witch in
The richest gallipot in the kitchen!”
A lolloping galloping candle confesses.
“Outside in the passage are wildernesses
Of darkness rustling like witches’ dresses.”
Out go the candles one by one,
Hearing the beating of a drum!
What is the march we hear groan
As the hoofèd sound of a drum marched on
With a pang like darkness, with a clang
Blacker than an orang-outang?
“Heliogabalus is alone, —
Only his bones to play upon.”
The mocking money in the pockets
Then turned black … now caws
The fire … outside, one scratched the door
As with iron claws, —
Scratching under the children’s bed
And up the trembling stairs … “Long dead”
Moaned the water black as crape.
Over the snow the wintry moon
Limp as henbane, or herb paris,
Spotted the bare trees; and soon
Whinnying, neighed the maned blue wind,
Turning the burning milk to snow:
Whining it shied down the corridor —
Over the floor I heard it go
Where the drum rolls up the stair, nor tarries.