Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE VINDICTIVE STAIRCASE, OR THE REWARD OF INDUSTRY, by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE VINDICTIVE STAIRCASE, OR THE REWARD OF INDUSTRY, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: In a doomed and empty house in houndsditch
Last Line: In a damned and ghostly house in houndsditch!


In a doomed and empty house in Houndsditch
All night long I lie awake and listen,
While all night the ghost of Mrs. Murphy
Tiptoes up and down the wheezy staircase,
Sweeling ghostly grease of quaking candles.

Mrs. Murphy, timidest of spectres,
You who were the cheeriest of charers,
With the heart of innocence and only
Torn between a zest for priests and porter,
Mrs. Murphy of the ample bosom, --
Suckler of a score or so of children
("Children? Bless you! Why, I've buried six, Sir.")
Who in forty years wore out three husbands
And one everlasting, shameless bonnet
Which I've little doubt was coffined with you --
Mrs. Murphy, wherefor do you wander,
Sweeling ghostly grease of quaking candles,
Up and down the stairs you scrubbed so sorely,
Scrubbed till they were naked, dank, and aching?

Now that you are dead, is this their vengeance?
Recollecting all you made them suffer
With your bristled brush and soapy water
When you scrubbed them naked, dank and aching,
Have they power to hold your ghostly footsteps
Chained as to an everlasting treadmill?

Mrs. Murphy, think you 'twould appease them
If I rose now in my shivering nightshirt,
Rose and told them how you, too, had suffered --
You, their seeming tyrant, but their bondslave --
Toiling uncomplaining in their service,
Till your knuckles and your knees were knotted
Into writhing fires of red rheumatics,
And how, in the end, 'twas they who killed you?

Even should their knots still harden to you,
Bow your one and all-enduring bonnet
Till your ear is level with my keyhole,
While I whisper ghostly consolation:
Know this house is marked out for the spoiler,
Doomed to fall to Hobnails with his pickaxe;
And its crazy staircase chopped to firewood,
Splintered, bundled, burned to smoke and ashes,
Soon shall perish, scattered to the fourwinds.
Then, God rest your spirit, Mrs. Murphy!

Yet, who knows! A staircase ... Mrs. Murphy,
God forbid that you be doomed to tiptoe
Through eternity, a timid spectre,
Sweeling ghostly grease of quaking candles,
Up and down the spectre of a staircase,
While all night I lie awake and listen
In a damned and ghostly house in Houndsditch!





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