Now thou pretty little fellow,
    Now thine eyes are turning yellow,
      Thou shalt be our page to-night! 
    Come and sit thee next to us,
      And as we may want a light
    See that thou be dexterous.

    Now bring forth your tractates musty,
    Dry, cadaverous, and dusty,
    One, on the sound of mammoths’ bones
    In motion; one, on Druid-stones: 
    Show designs for pipes most ghastly,
    And devils and ogres grinning nastily! 
    Show, show the limnings ye brought back,
    Since round and round the zodiac
    Ye galloped goblin horses which
    Were light as smoke and black as pitch;
    And those ye made in the mouldy moon,
    And Uranus, Saturn, and Neptune,
    And in the planet Mercury,
    Where all things living and dead have an eye
    Which sometimes opening suddenly
    Stareth and startleth strangely

    But now the night is growing better,
    And every jet of smoke grows jetter,
    While yet there blinks sufficient light,
    Bring in those skeletons that fright
    Most men into fits, but that
    We relish for their want of fat. 
    Bring them in, the Cimabues
    With all or each that horribly true is,
    Francias, Giottos, Masaccios,
    That tread on the tops of their bony toes,
    And every one with a long sharp arrow
    Cleverly shot through his spinal marrow,
    With plenty of gridirons, spikes, and fires
    And fiddling angels in sheets and quires.

    Hold! ’tis dark! ’tis lack of light,
    Or something wrong in this royal sight,
    Or else our musty, dusty, and right
    Well-beloved lieges all
    Are standing in rank against the wall,
    And ever thin and thinner, and tall
    And taller grow and cadaveral!
    Subjects, ye are sharp and spare,
    Every nose is blue and frosty,
    And your back-bone’s growing bare,
    And your king can count your costae,
    And your bones are clattering,
    And your teeth are chattering,
    And ye spit out bits of pipe,
    Which, shorter grown, ye faster gripe
      In jaws; and weave a cloudy cloak
    That wraps up all except your bones
      Whose every joint is oozing smoke: 
    And there’s a creaky music drones
    Whenas your lungs distend your ribs,
    A sound, that’s like the grating nibs
    Of pens on paper late at night;
    Your shanks are yellow more than white
    And very like what Holbein drew! 
    Avaunt! ye are a ghastly crew
    Too like the Campo Santo—­down! 
    We are your monarch, but we own
    That were we not, we very well
    Might take ye to be imps of hell: 
    But ye are glorious ghastly sprites,
    What ho! our page!  Sir knave—­lights, lights,
    The final pipes are to be lit: 
    Sit, gentlemen, we charge ye sit
    Until the cock affrays the night
  And heralds in the limping morn,
    And makes the owl and raven flit;
    Until the jolly moon is white,
  And till the stars and moon are gone.