And they passed and varied before his view,
And twisted themselves about.
But the good St. Gladstone kept his eyes
Fixed on that excellent book.
From it they did not sink or rise,
Nor sights, nor laughter, nor shouts, nor cries
Could win away his look.
One black imp came in a masquerade
Most like a ghoul’s attire,
With a face like a skull in dried parchment arrayed,