My old position in our party? Tell me, tell me, I implore.”
“Morley,” quoth he, nothing more.
“Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend;” I cried, upstarting;
“All our conferential meetings only serve to part us more.
Get thee gone with this defiance, tho’ we have no real reliance,
In the strength of our affiance—for ’tis rotten to the core—
This our aim, our hidden purpose, we don’t want to cross the floor.”
“Gladstone,” croaked he, nothing more.
But that raven never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Demos—grimly mocking o’er the door;