"_So it's watches and lockets, and who will buy? It's ribbon and lace, and they're not priced high. If you're out for a ring or a golden chain You can't look over my tray in vain: And here is a balsam made of drops From a tree that's grown by the AEthiops!_ "_I've a chip of the tooth of a mastodont That's sure to give you the girl you want. I've a packet of spells to make men sigh For the lustrous glance of your liquid eye-- But it's much too dark for such wondrous wares, So back, stand back, while I light my flares!_" Then he lit a match, but his fingers fumbled, And, striking his foot on a stone, he stumbled; And the match, released by the sudden shock, Fell in flame on the old wood-block, And burnt there very quietly-- But before you could have counted three, Hardly giving you time to shout, A red-blue column of fire shot out, Up and up and ever higher, A marvellous burst of raging fire, Lighting the crowd that shrank from its flashes, And so decreasing, And suddenly ceasing As the seat of St. Crag was burnt to ashes! But in the smoke that drifted on the Green Queer freaks of vision weirdly wrought were seen: For on that shifting background each one saw His own reflection and recoiled in awe; Saw himself there, a bright light shining through him, Not as he thought himself, but as men knew him. Before this sudden and revealing sense Each rag of sham, each tatter of pretence Withered and vanished, as dissolved in air, And left the shuddering human creature bare. But when they turned and looked upon a friend They saw a sight that all but made amend: For they beheld him as a radiant spirit Indued with virtue and surpassing merit, Not vain or dull or mean or keen for pelf, But splendid--as he mostly saw himself. Darville and Fall were drawn to one another, And both to Bent as to their heart's own brother; And a strange feeling grew in every breast, A self-defeating altruistic zest Which from that moment's flash composed their strife, Informed their nature and controlled their life. But when they sought the Gipsy, him they found, His dark eyes staring, dead upon the ground. THE BIRD IN THE ROOM A robin skimmed into the room, And blithe he looked and jolly, A foe to every sort of gloom, And, most, to melancholy. He cocked his head, he made no sound, But gave me stare for stare back, When, having fluttered round and round, He perched upon a chair-back. I rose; ah, then, it seemed, he knew Too late his reckless error: Away in eager haste he flew, And at his tail flew terror. Now here, now there, from wall to floor, For mere escape appealing, He fled and struck against the door Or bumped about the ceiling. I went and flung each window wide, I drew each half-raised blind up; To coax him out in vain I tried; He could not make his mind up. He flew, he fell, he took a rest, And off again he scuffled With parted beak and panting breast And every feather ruffled.