THE BRASS DOOR-KNOCKER
A sixteenth-century gentleman, who holds A book within his hand, or else some screedThat dates a heritage and proves a case— A likely thing to balance to a need—With no disclosures in his sombre face.This is the knocker! How the grey ghosts passA knick-a-knocking on the time-worn brass!
Perhaps a burly rogue, with murder pent In his cold heart, came stealthily by nightAnd touched this warning with a treacherous hand, Fearing the smoking torches' ruddy light,Though venture—and escape—were ably planned,But Chance may make the craftiest play the fool;The brain behind him might not spare the tool!
One notes the seeking ray the lamp has cast On to the shallow steps, hears clashing chains,A handle turning; then, to guard the street, Only a closed door with its clamps remains.The watch belike is slumbering on his beat.Did the lean prowling cat that padded byBristle a moment at a muffled cry?
Now down the steps the hooded slayer creeps, Looks round just once, his shoulders hunched, as thoughHe felt the burden on his blackened soul. Past Wapping Stairs the oily tides will flow;
