They come--they come--they leap--they scamper in,
Ere, grating on its hinges, slams the door
Inexorable. . . . . .
Pauses the sluggard, at Wood and Hall's just crossing,
The chime melodious dying on his ear.
Embroidered sandals scarce maintain their hold
Upon his feet, shuffling, with heel exposed,
And 'neath his upper garment just appears
A many-colored robe; about his throat
No comfortable scarf, but crumpled _gills_
Shrink from the scanning eye of passenger
The omnibus o'erhauling. List! 't was the last,
Last stroke! it dies away, like murmuring wave.
Bootless he came,--and bootless wends he back,
Gnawing his gloveless thumb, and pacing slow.
Bright eyes might gaze on him, compassionate,
But that yon rosy maiden, early afoot,
Is o'er her shoulder watching, with wild fear,
A horned host that rushes by amain,
Bellowing bassoon-like music. Angry shouts
Of drovers, horrid menace, and dire curse,
Shrill scream of imitative boy, and crack
Of cruel whip, the tread of clumsy feet
Are hurrying on:--but now, with instinct sure,
Madly those doomed ones bolt from the dread road
That leads to Brighton and to death. They charge
Up Brattle Street. Screaming the maiden flies,
Nor heeds the loss of fluttering veil, upborne
On sportive breeze, and sailing far away.
And now a flock of sheep, bleating, bewildered,