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And like a nine-pin one, a slaughtered ox
The other, Blasius and his acolyte
Dropped right and left: a moment vivid
Thro’ closing cleft a narrowing crack o’ light
Flashed the wild spectrum of the crowd,
With anger pale, with fury livid,
Whose tangled swarms of heads and arms
Shook menaces of vengeance, vowed
With imprecations deep and loud.
Then Blasius, scrambling to his feet,
With one broad lurch shut out the street,
Shot each thick bolt into its socket,
Fixed the doors, bars, and props to block it,
And clapped the huge key in his pocket.
Then, stair and landing barricaded,
The rescued pair, each in his chair
Dropped like a billet, breathless, jaded,
With scarce strength left to wipe his brow,
And, simpering, breathe the mystic “Ciaǹ!”
We’ve had so much of thump and thunder
I deem ’twere an artistic blunder
Again minutely to depict
The mob’s wild rage as, foiled and tricked,
It bubbled, frothed and seethed below
Like boiling milk in overflow.
Not that its temperament was lactine—
But similes one can’t be exact in—
Nor were its rags or features pallid:
The froth and fume’s the part that’s valid,
As now it swirled, then, gathering, hurled
A flight of stones, the windows smashing.
Then, down the archway blindly dashing
