But now it is night, and the crowds have departed; The vast dim halls are still and deserted; Only the ghost-like watchmen go, Through shimmer and shadow, to and fro; While the moon in the sky, With his half-shut eye, Peers smilingly in at his rival below. At this mysterious hour, what is it That comes to pay the Fair a visit? The gates are all barred, With a faithful guard Without and within; and yet 'tis clear Somebody--or something--is entering here! [Illustration: "ENCIRCLED ALL DAY BY A WONDERING THRONG."] There is a Paris underground, Where dwells another nation; Where neither lawyer nor priest is found, Nor money nor taxation; And scarce a glimmer, and scarce a sound Reaches those solitudes profound, But silence and darkness close it round,-- A horrible habitation! Its streets are the sewers, where rats abound; Where swarms, unstifled, unstarved, undrowned, Their ravenous population. Underground Paris has heard of the Fair; And up from the river, from alley and square, To the wonderful palace the rats repair; And one old forager, grizzled and spare,-- The wisest to plan and the boldest to dare, To smell out a prize or to find out a snare,-- In some dark corner, beneath some stair (I never learned how, and I never knew where), Has gnawed his way into the grand affair; First one rat, and then a pair, And now a dozen or more are there. They caper and scamper, and blink and stare, While the drowsy watchman nods in his chair. But little a hungry rat will care For the loveliest lacquered or inlaid ware, Jewels most precious, or stuffs most rare;-- There's a marvelous smell of cheese in the air! They all make a rush for the delicate fare; But the shrewd old fellow squeaks out, "Beware! 'T is a prize indeed, but I say, forbear! For cats may catch us and men may scare, And a well-set trap is a rat's despair; But if we are wise, and would have our share With perfect safety to hide and hair, Now listen, and we will our plans prepare." The watchman rouses, the rats are gone; On a thousand windows gleams the dawn; And now once more Through every door, With hustle and bustle, the great crowds pour; And nobody hears a soft little sound, As of sawing or gnawing, somewhere underground.