Lol 'ti8 a gala night Within the lonetíume latter yearsl An angel throng, bewinged, bedight ín vuils and drowned in tears, 6it ín a theater to see A play of hopes and fears, While the orchestra breathes fitfully The music of the spheres. Mimes, in the forra of God on high, Mutter and mumble low And hither and thither fly. More puppnta they, who come and go At bidding of vaat, formless things That shift the scenury to and fro, Flapping from out their condor wingw Invisible woel That motley drama I Oh, be snre It shall not be forgot! With its phantom chased forevermore By a crowd that seize it not, Through a circle that ever returneth in To the selfsame spot., And much of madness and more of sin And horror, the soul of the plot But see, amid the mimic rout, A crawling shape intrude! A blood red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitudel It writhes- it writhes with mortal pangsl The mimes become its food, And the seraphs sob at vernam fangs In human gore imbrued. Out, out are the lights; out all! And over each quivering form The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, And the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, afflrin That the play is the tragcdy "Slan, " And its hero the conquoror, worm.