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On the Stair
37
A vase of bronze was held in its place,
On the stair-angle's marble face,
By its Bacchanalian handle;
And golden lilies were growing therein,
Type of the great who ne'er toil or spin;
And each lily held a candle.
Whilst the late Court painter's Nymph-ideal,
Devoid of expression or feeling,
Balanced upon an impossible heel,
Smiled vacantly down from the ceiling.
At last a murmur from low to loud,
Rustled and swelled across the crowd,
Which stood at bay
On the main stairway.
And Jean the butcher lifted his axe
To split that brow 'neath its curls of flax,
And cure its brains of their rambles;
But there was a sudden, steely flash,
And Jean the butcher fell with a crash,
