Blest if I know where I am in this murkiness made to benight us, Blest
if I know what it means, this infernal Impressionist etching;
Surely some WHISTLER renowned in the gibbering realms of Cocytus Drew
it--and draws us along through its avenues ghostlily stretching.
Lights flicker out in the gloom, like diminutive goblins that beckon;
Onward we stagger and gasp in the grip of this emanence deadly:
How I would curse if I could, but not RABELAIS even I reckon Language
could find, or a voice if he wished for the sulphurous medley.
Blest if I know who you are, wicked giant, colossal above me, Pluto
perchance or, that fell spirit-ferryman, Charon uprising!
Blest if I know if survives in this demon-land anything of me,
Blest!--It's a lamp-post, by George--a reality somewhat surprising!
London, how long shall thy sons rue this Angel of Death with his
grim bow, Suffer this nightmare to last by its pestilence mangled and
throttled?
Would magic Science could scare the black vista to luridest Limbo,
Would that fresh breezes were tinned and the sunshine of Italy
bottled!!
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[Illustration: MISS TWELFTHNIGHT AND HER CHARACTERS FOR 1892.]
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