Paganini
was always followed about
By a Spiritus Familiaris,
Who was now a dog, and now assumed
The forrn of the late George Harris.
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On
Napoleon, at every critical hour,
A man in scarlet waited;
And Socrates had his daemon too—
No vision brain-created.
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And
I, myself, when at work by night
Have seen, his features hidden
By a sinister mask, behind my chair,
A mysterious guest unbidden.
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He
had something concealed beneath his cloak,
Which at times, when the light would catch it,
Glinted and gleamed in the strangest way,
Like an executioner's hatchet.
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He
was square and short, his eyes were as bright
As stars, and as keen as sabres.
He kept his distance, and held his tongue,
And never disturbed my labours.
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This
singular fellow had vanished for years,
And who would have thought he'd find rue
In the town of Cologne, in the moonlit street
Where he suddenly stood behind me?
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I
noted him dogging my every step,
As I sauntered dreamily musing;
If I stood for a moment he came to a halt,
Like a shadow, without my choosing.
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He
would stand as if waiting, and when I moved on
Once more, would follow me closely.
And so we reached the Cathedral square,
When I turned at last morosely––
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For
I found it beyond endurance—and said
With excusable irritation,
"Why doggest thou thus my steps through the night?
I demand an explanation.
