How did it happen, that last tragedy?-- For tragedy it was, let none deny, Though all ignoble. Every soul of us Touches one moment in death's darkened house The plane of the heroic, and compels Men's laughter into tears--ay, heaven's and hell's. How did it happen? There was that upon Their faces at the door more than the tone Of their replies, that warned us of the thing We had not looked for in our questioning; And our lips faltered, and our ears, afraid, Shrank from more hearing. What was it they said In their fool's jargon, that he lay upstairs? He? Manton? The dispenser of our cares? The mountebank young reveller? Suffering? Ill? And she, poor soul, that suffered at his will! A sinister case? Not dying? Pitiful God! Truly Thou smitest blindly with Thy rod. For Manton was not worthy to die young, Beloved by her with blessings on her tongue. And such a cause of death! She never heard The whole truth told, for each one spared his word, And he lay mute for ever. But to me The thing was storied void of mystery, And thus they told it. Hardly had we gone On our sad river outing, when from town Manton had come with a gay troop of friends, Such as the _coulisse_ of the opera lends, To breakfast at the inn and spend the day In mirthful noise, as was his vagrant way. A drunken frolic, and most insolent To her whose honour with his own was blent, To end in this last tragedy. None knew Quite how it happened, or a cause could shew Further than this, that, rising from the table The last to go, with steps perhaps unstable-- For they had feasted freely, and the stair Was steep and iron-edged, and needed care; And singing, as he went, the selfsame song, Which I remembered, to the laughing throng, He had slipped his length, and fallen feet-first down. When they picked him up his power to move was gone, Though he could speak. They laid him on a bed, Her bed, Griselda's, and called in with speed Such help of doctors and commissioners As law prescribed, and medicine for their fears. 'Twas his last night.