Perched upon a bust of Bradlaugh just above my chamber door—
Perched and spat, and nothing more.
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil, prophet still, Parnell, or devil,
Whether Gladstone or young Herbert sent or brought thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this island disenchanted,
In this home by horror haunted, tell me truly, I implore,
Shall I, shall I poll as many as did Roseberry before?”
Quoth the Raven, “Never more.”
“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil, prophet still, Churchhill or devil,
By that bust that scowls beneath thee, by that God he don’t adore,