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In dark platoons, it flounced, bounced, hammered
Against the stubborn planks, and stammered
Vain imprecations as the portals
Respinged that surge of clamouring mortals.
So things unchanged awhile went on,
And then, when all the panes were gone,
The saints above put up the shutters,
And as they did so, blandly bowed
And smiled triumphant at the crowd
(Much as grimalkin in the cherry-
Tree safe ensconced at Trot makes merry).
To hear the stones rebound upon
The scalps below or line the gutters.
No wonder, hampered thus and gagged,
This flagstone conversation flagged,
And steadier than that rain of knocks
On craniums thick and orthodox,
Moved by some instinct deep and subtle
Flowing from soul to soul magnetic,
A hush, a silence sympathetic
Falls spell-like on th’ impassioned tumult.
Those battering in the gateway’s gloom halt:
The flights of stones from mid-street shatter
The panes no more, but idly patter,
Harmless, upon the kindred paving
From slackening fists, as o’er the lists
Lo! the same lanky leader waving
His spidery arms like flails, and craving,
In accents higher than Strasburg spire,
Like a bat raving so shrilly, shaving,
Brand, firewood, torch, to fill the porch,
