_Hush! keep back! your chaffing cease, Some one's steps are this way bent. Is it one of the police? No, 'tis but a tipsy gent, Singing some night-song As he reels along. Now he turns the corner humming That there is "A good time coming."_ [Illustration] The straw is lying in the square, And cabs go by with muffled sound; Whilst cautious hands no longer dare To lift the knocker—leather bound. Through the night Burns a light From the bedroom window's height, As the angel of grim death Hovers there on dusky wings, To wait the passing breath Quiv'ring through life's curdled springs. Go, the mutes and mourners call, Plumed hearse and heavy pall! Head of that sad family Tenant of the tomb shall be Ere the ghastly week is o'er, And the knocker sounds once more. _See! the thoroughfare is clear, Nothing in it but the lamps. Now, look sharp! the door draw near, Wrench the knocker from its clamps_ _Does it still resist? Give a tougher twist. Put your stick within the ring. Now—with both hands—that's the thing!_ [Illustration] The sun is shining in the street, The clock moves on from three to five. The pavement glows with dazzling heat, And all the West-end is alive. The air with Bouquet-Royal laden, Or Patchouli's oppressive herb, Plays round the fair-haired high-born maiden, Whose Clarence draws up at the kerb. And now the knocker knows no quiet, But revels in unceasing riot. The flunkey first awakes the clang With "_Rat-a-tat-tat, bang! bang!! bang!!!_" The doctor greater care observes, With temper'd knock for shaken nerves. Next small tat-tat from frightened fingers Of one in seedy black, who lingers In fear and trembling at the door, Before he dares to knock once more. Professor he, of light guitar, Or Polish master from afar, Or poor relation come to claim Some small aid due to blood and name. All sorts of objects come and go, Like some phantasmagoric show. Patron or beggar, great or small, The knocker is a lift to all.