    That motley drama! --oh, be sure
    It shall not be forgot!
    With its Phantom chased forever more,
    By a crowd that seize it not,
    Through a circle that ever returneth in
    To the self-same spot,
    And much of Madness and more of Sin
    And Horror the soul of the plo
    But see, amid the mimic rout,
    A crawling shape intrude!
    A blood-red thing that writhes from out
    The scenic solitude!
    It writhes! --it writhes! --with mortal pangs
    The mimes become its food,
    And the seraphs sob at vermin fangs
    In human gore imbue
    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, affirm
    That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
    And its hero the Conqueror Wor