"See yon close-shuttered shop! Peace broodeth there,
You deem perchance; but look within. A lair
Of midnight smugglers, stirring
At the sea's signal, scarce seems more agog.
And yet each toiler's heart lies like a log,
Sleep each tired eye is blurring.
"Feet scuttle, fingers fleet, pens work apace;
A whipt-up zeal marks every pallid face;
One voice austere, sonorous,
Chides, threatens, sometimes curses. How they flush,