preserved a _German_ Ode to Evening. They, who are curious to behold
the _Teutonic_ Muse, in the character of a pensive minstrel, may here
be gratified.
Komm, stiller abend, neider,
Auf unsre kleine flur;
Dir toenen unsre lieder,
Wie schoen bist du, natur!
Schon steigt die abendroethe
Herab ins kuehle thal;
Bald glantz in sanfter roethe
Der sonne letzter strahl.
All uberal herrscht schweigen
Nur schwingt der vogel chor
Hoch aus den dunkeln zweigen
Den nacht gesang empor.
Komm, lieber abend, neider
Auf unsre kleine flur;
Dir toenen unsre lieder,
Wie schoen bist du natur.
TRANSLATION.
Come, silent Eve, return again,
Our homely cottage view,
And hear us sing a cheerful strain,
To thee, and nature due.
The sun retires yon hills behind,
And sinks into the sea,
Glancing his rays both mild and kind,
Oh, blushing maid, on thee.
To thee he yields the soothing sway,
Inviting all to rest;
The birds conclude the happy day
With singing on thy breast.
Come, silent Eve, return again,
Our homely cottage view,
And hear us sing a cheerful strain,
To thee and nature due.
_Port Folio_, V-149, May 18, 1805, Phila.
FROM THE GERMAN OF LESSING.
Ah! why am I so transient, ask'd of Jupiter, Beauty?
Only the transient is fair, smiling answer'd the God!
Love, and Youth, and the Spring, and the Flow'rs, and the Dew,
they all heard it;
Slowly they turn'd away, weeping from Jupiter's throne!
_Port Folio_, I-40, Jan. 25, 1806, Phila.
THE WOODEN LEG. [a].
An Helvetick Tale.
From the German of Solomon Gessner.
[Prose translation.]
_Polyanthos_, I-192, Feb., 1806, Boston.
[S. Gessner, _Das hoelzerne Bein_. W. Hooper, _New Idylles_, p. 78.]
It is but seldom that the Muses of the North sing more sweetly than in
the following strain:
SONG--FROM THE GERMAN.
Scarce sixteen summers had I seen,
And rov'd my native bow'rs;
Nor stray'd my thoughts beyond the green,
Bedew'd with shrubs and flow'rs.
When late a stranger youth appear'd;
I neither wish'd nor sought him;
He came, but whence I never heard,
And spake what love had taught him.
His hair in graceful ringlets play'd,
All eyes are charm'd that view them,
And o'er his comely shoulders stray'd,
Where wanton zephyrs blew them.
His speaking eye of azure hue
Seem'd ever softly suing,
And such an eye, so clear and blue,
Ne'er shone for maid's undoing.
His face was fair, his cheek was red,
With blushes ever burning;
And all he spoke was deftly said,
Though far beyond my learning.
Where'er I stray'd, the youth was nigh,
His look soft sorrows speaking;
Sweet maid! he'd say, then gaze and sigh,
As if his heart were breaking.
And once, as low his head he hung,
I fain would ask the meaning;
When round my neck his arms he flung,
Soft tears his grief explaining.
Such freedom ne'er was ta'en till now,
And now 'twas unoffending;
Shame spread my cheek with ruddy glow,
My eyes kept downward bending.
Nor aught I spoke, my looks he read,
As if with anger burning;
No--not one word--away he sped,
Ah! would he were returning.
_Port Folio_, I-189, Mar. 29, 1806, Phila.
PASTORAL POETRY.
From Gessner's "New Idyls."
THE ZEPHYRS. [b].
[Prose translation.] _Weekly Visitant_, I-158, May 17, 1806, Salem.
[S. Gessner, _Die Zephyre_.
W. Hooper, _New Idylles_, p. 16.]
From Gessner's "New Idylles."
THE CARNATION.
[Prose translation.] _Weekly Visitant_, I-159, May 17, 1806, Salem.
[S. Gessner, _Die Nelke_.
W. Hooper, _New Idylles_, p. 7.]
THE NAME UNKNOWN.
Imitated from Klopstock's ode to his future mistress. By Thomas
Campbell, Esq., author of Pleasures of Hope.
_Evening Fire-Side or Lit. Misc._, II-165, May 24, 1806, Phila.
[F. G. Klopstock, _Die kuenftige Geliebte_.
The above imitation appeared first in a newspaper, _Newport Mercury_,
No. 2160, Aug. 30, 1803, Newport.]
THE FOWLER--A SONG.
Altered from a German air, in the opera of "Die Zauberlote."
A CARELESS whistling lad am I,
On sky-lark wings my moments fly;
There's not a _Fowler_ more renown'd
In all the world--for ten miles round!
Ah! who like me can spread the net?
Or tune the merry flageolet?
Then why--O why should I repine,
Since all the roving birds are mine?
The thrush and linnet in the vale,
The sweet sequester'd nightingale,
The bulfinch, wren, and wood-lark, all
Obey my summons when I call:
O! could I form some cunning snare
To catch the coy, coquetting fair,
In _Cupid's_ filmy web so fine,
The pretty girls should all be mine!
When all were mine--among the rest,
I'd choose the Lass I lik'd the best;
And should my charming mate be kind;
And smile, and kiss me to my mind,
With her I'd tie the nuptial knot,
Make _Hymen's_ cage of my poor cot,
And love away this fleeting life,
Like Robin Redbreast and his wife!
_Mo. Anthology and Boston Rev._, III-591, Nov. 1806, Boston.
[E. Schickaneder, _Die Zauberfloete_. Oper in zwei Aufzuegen von Mozart.
Dichtung nach Ludwig Giesecke von E. Schickaneder.
James Montgomery, _The Wanderer of Switzerland and Other Poems_,
London, 1806. First Amer. ed. from second London ed., N. Y., 1807. P.
93.]
THE CHASE.
In the third number[33] of the Port Folio we inserted a very humorous
parody of the following ballad of Buerger. We understand from the
criticks in the German Language that the original is eminently
beautiful. Its merit was once so highly appreciated in England that a
host of translators started at once in the race for public favor. The
ensuing version which is, we believe, by Sir Walter Scott, Esqr., well
deserves a place in this journal.
[Footnote 33: _Parody on Buerger's Earl Walter_ in _Port
Folio_, III-44, Jan. 17, 1807. Cf. p. 165.]
[The translation by Scott follows.]
_Port Folio_, III-100, Feb. 14, 1807, Phila.
[Also in _Weekly Mag._, II-413, July 28, 1798, Phila.]
The following charming
SONG
is translated from the German by Mr. Herbert.
"Hail, orient sun, auspicious light!
Hail, new-born orb of day!
Lo, from behind the wood-crown'd height,
Breaks forth thy glittering ray.
Behold it sparkle in the stream,
And on the dew drop shine!
O, may sweet joy's enlivening beam
Mix his pure rays with thine!
The Zephyrs now, with frolic wing,
Their rosy beds forsake;
And, shedding round the sweets of spring,
Their drowsy comrades wake.
Soft sleep and all his airy forms
Fly from the dawning day:
Like little loves O may their swarms
On Chloe's bosom play!
Ye Zephyrs haste; from every flower
The sweetest perfumes take;
And bear them hence to Chloe's bower;
For soon the maid must wake!
And, hovering round her fragrant bed,
In breezes call my fair;
Go, frolic round her graceful head,
And scent her golden hair!
Then gently whisper in her ear,
That ere the sun gan rise,
By the soft murmuring fountain here
I breath'd her name in sighs."
_Observer_, I-352, May 30, 1807, Balto.
Selected Poetry.
THE POEM OF HALLER VERSIFIED.
By HENRY JAMES PYE, Esq., P.L.
Ah! woods forever dear! whose branches spread
Their verdant arch o'er Hasel's breezy head,
When shall I once again, supinely laid,
Hear Philomela charm your list'ning shade?
When shall I stretch my careless limbs again,
Where, gently rising from the velvet plain,
O'er the green hills, in easy curve that bend,
The mossy carpet Nature's hands extend?
Where all is silent! save the gales that move
The leafy umbrage of the whisp'ring grove;
Or the soft murmurs of the rivulet's wave,
Whose chearing streams the lonely meadows lave.
O Heav'n! when shall once more these eyes be cast
On scenes where all my spring of life was pass'd;
Where, oft responsive to the falling rill,
Sylvia and love my artless lays would fill?
While Zephyr's fragrant breeze, soft breathing, stole
A pleasing sadness o'er my pensive soul:
Care, and her ghastly train, were far away; }
While calm, beneath the sheltering woods I lay }
Mid shades, impervious to the beams of day. }
Here--sad reverse!--from scenes of pleasure far,
I wage with sorrow unremitting war:
Oppress'd with grief, my ling'ring moments flow,
Nor aught of joy, or aught of quiet, know.
Far from the scenes that gave my being birth,
From parents far, an outcast of the earth!
In youth's warm hours, from each restriction free,
Left to myself in dangerous liberty.
Ah! scenes of earthly joy! ah, much-lov'd shades!
Soon may my footsteps tread your vernal glades.
Ah! should kind Heav'n permit me to explore
Your seats of still tranquillity once more!
E'en now to Fancy's visionary eye,
Hope shews the flattering hour of transport nigh,
Blue shines the aether, when the storm is past;
And calm repose succeeds to sorrow's blast.
Flourished, ye scenes of every new delight!
Wave wide your branches to my raptur'd sight!
While, ne'er to roam again, my wearied feet
Seek the kind refuge of your calm retreat.
Now pale disease shoots thro' my languid frame,
And checks the zeal for wisdom and for fame.
Now droops fond hope, by Disappointment cross'd;
Chill'd by neglect, each sanguine wish is lost.
O'er the weak mound stern Ocean's billows ride,
And waft destruction in with every tide;
While Mars, descending from his crimson car,
Fans with fierce hands the kindling flames of war.
Her gentle aid let Consolation lend;
All human evils hasten to their end.
The storm abates at every gust it blows;
Past ills enhance the comforts of repose.
He who ne'er felt the pressure of distress,
Ne'er felt returning pleasure's keen excess.
Time who Affliction bore on rapid wing,
My panting heart to happiness may bring;
I, on my native hills, may yet inhale
The purer influence of the ambient gale.
_Observer_, II-95, Aug. 8, 1807, Balto.
[Albrecht von Haller, _Sehnsucht nach dem Vaterlande_.]
Walter Scott, Esq., whose honoured name is now perfectly familiar to
every lover of poetical description, has lately published a ballad
which we are solicitous to preserve in this paper. The gayety of the
beginning, contrasted with the solemnity of the conclusion of this
terrifick ballad cannot fail to strike all who relish The Castle of
Otranto, or The Romance of the Forest.
FREDERICK AND ALICE.
This tale is imitated rather than translated from a fragment
introduced in Goethe's "Claudina von Villa Bella," where it is sung by
a member of a gang of banditti to engage the attention of the family,
while his companions break into the castle. It owes any little merit
it may possess to my friend Mr. Lewis, to whom it was sent in an
extremely rude state; and who, after some material improvement,
published it in his "Tales of Wonder."
[The poem follows.]
_Port Folio_, IV-134, Aug. 29, 1807, Phila.
[Goethe, _Claudine von Villa Bella_, Act II. Song by "Rugantino"
(Karlos von Castellvecchio).
M. G. Lewis, _Tales of Wonder_.]
THE LASS OF FAIR WONE.
From the German of Buerger.
_Charms of Lit._, p. 103, 1808, Trenton.
[Also in _Phila. Minerva_, II, Dec. 17, 1796, Phila.]
THE WOODEN LEG. [b].
A Swiss Idyll.
By GESSNER.
[Prose translation.]
_Charms of Lit._, p. 401, 1808, Trenton.
[S. Gessner, _Das hoelzerne Bein_.]
FROM THE GERMAN OF GESNER.
Hail, Morning, to thy rising beam
That gilds with light the mountain's brow,
And shines and glitters in the stream
That winds along the vale below!
Joy, and health, and glad delight
Await thy steps, thy march pursue;
The Zephyr now that slept the night
In flowers that weep beneath the dew,
His plumes with new-born vigour tries,
And lifts him from his balmy bed;
And dreams that round the wearied eyes
Of mortals hover'd, now are fled.
Haste, ye Gales, and thro' the air
Waft the sweets from every flower,
And wave your wings around my Fair,
What slumbers in yon rosy bower;
Paint o'er her lips and cheek's bright hues,
And heave upon her heaving breast,
And when yo've chas'd Sleep's balmy dews,
And gently burst the bonds of rest,
Oh whisper to her list'ning ear,
That e'er bright Morn had deck'd the sky,
These streams beheld me shed the tear,
And heard me pour for her the sigh!
_Lady's Weekly Misc._, VII-112, June 11, 1808, N. Y.
[S. Gessner, _Morgenlied_.]
MORNING SONG.
(Morgenlied) from the German of Gesner.
Welcome, early orb of morn!
Welcome, infant day!
O'er the wood-top'd mountain borne,
Mark its coming ray!
Now o'er babbling brooks it beams;
Sips from each flower its _dew_;
Now with glorious gladdening gleams
Wakes the world anew.
Zephyrs first, o'er flowers that slumber'd,
Quit their couch, and play;
Breathe o'er flowers in sighs unnumber'd,
Breathe the scent of day.
Fancy now her reign gives o'er,
Every vision flies;
Chloe's cheek is wan no more,
Cupids round it rise.
Hasten, Zephyr, waft from roses
All their loveliest bloom!
Haste where Chloe now reposes,
Wake her from her tomb!
To the fairest's couch repair,
Wanton round her pillow;
O'er her lip and bosom fair
Bathe thy blandest billow!
She wakes the whispers to the gale,
Wakes from her morning dream;
Whilst so the stream, and thro' the vale,
I er'st have breathed her name.
_Emerald_, n. s., I-562, Sept. 10, 1808, Boston.
[S. Gessner, _Morgenlied_.]
TRANSLATION OF SHELLER'S "FORGET ME NOT."
(From the German.)
Belov'd of my bosom, alas my fond heart
Does weep for the fate of my heart-rending lot;
To range the wide world, now from me you depart,
Yet remember me ever, "forget me not."
If moving in circles of beauty and love,
Perchance to adore some sweet maid, be your lot,
O! then may my spirit thy wav'rings reprove,
And whisper thee gently, "forget me not."
If hap'ly hard fate should you e'er from me sever,
How drearily mournful would be my sad lot,
In sorrow's dark path I would wander forever,
Nor smile more with joy, then "forget me not."
If in the fresh bloom of my life's early blossom,
To leave you my dear, and this world, be my lot,
Thine be the last sigh that escapes from my bosom,
Then think how I love you; "O! forget me not."
Yet tho' we now part, in the bless'd realms above,
We will meet soon again, free from life's woeful lot;
We will meet to dear joy, we will meet to sweet love,
Then no more need I say "O! forget me not."
Z.
_Gleaner_, I-325, Mar. 1809, Lancaster (Penn.).
TRANSLATION FROM THE GERMAN.
Whoever has perused the prophetick metrical compositions of Van Vander
Horderclogeth must surely remember the poem on the 3697 fol. of which
the following is a translation; it commences thus--
Vrom Grouter gruder grout gropstock, Zordur zoop, &c.
All gloomy and sorrowful Beelzebub sat,
With his imps and his devils around,
When the thundering knocker of Hell's outer grate
Rang a peal so terrifick and loud on the gate,
That all Erebus echoed the sound.
Full swift to the portal the young devils flew,
And the long gloomy passage unbarr'd;
When a lanthorn-jaw'd monster stood forth to their view,
So meagre his figure, so pale was his hue,
That the devils all trembled and star'd.
All green were his eyes in their sockets decay'd,
His nose was projecting and wide,
In a dusty frock-coat was his carcase array'd,
On his scull he a three-corner'd scraper display'd,
And two volumes[34] he bore at his side.
So foul were his breath and the words that he said,
That his teeth had long rotted away--
And now to the devils a signal he made,
To show him their master, the devils obey'd,
And brought him where Beelzebub lay.
Old Beelzebub rose, as the monster came in,
And stood for a moment in dread,
For they look'd like each other enough to be kin,
Save that one had whole feet and a light-colour'd skin,
And the other had horns on his head.
'Whence art thou?' said Beelzebub; 'stranger, proclaim,
For if Satan can rightly divine,
Thou art surely some hero of throat-cutting fame,
For ne'er to these regions a spirit there came,
With figure so hellish as thine.'
'No throats have I cut,' the lank goblin replied,
With voice that was hollow and shrill;
'I have cheated, and bullied, and swindled, and lied,
Sedition and falsehood I've spread far and wide,
And in mischief I never was still.
'My name is ---- ----;' no sooner said he,
Than Beelzebub rose with a grin;
He embrac'd the foul monster, who also display'd
His joy at the meeting; and both of them made
All Hell echo round with their din.
_Ordeal_, I-157, Mar. 11, 1809, Boston.
[Footnote 34: I have not been able to discover what these
volumes were. There is a short note in the German, which
implies that they were entitled Dulder Soudth.]
THE FOWLER.
A Song. Altered from a German air, in the opera of "Dizauberlote."
_Gleaner_, I-374, Apr. 1809, Lancaster (Penn.).
[Also in _Mo. Anthology and Boston Rev._, III-591, Nov. 1806, Boston.]
TO CHLOE.
From the German of Gesner.
[Prose translation.]
_Visitor_, I-154, Nov. 4, 1809, Richmond.
[S. Gessner, _An Chloen_.]
SONG.
From the German of Jacobi.
_Boston Mirror_, II-88, Dec. 30, 1809, Boston.
[Same as, _A Sonnet_, by Jacobi, in _Companion and Weekly Misc._,
I-104, Jan. 26, 1805, Balto.]
I publish the following new translation of "The Wild Hunter," first on
account of its superiority over every other, and secondly because it
is my intention in a future number to notice particularly this _chef
d'oeuvre_ of the German poet.
THE WILD HUNTER.
Loud, loud the baron winds his horn;
And, see, a lordly train
On horse, on foot, with deafening din,
Comes scouring o'er the plain.
O'er heath, o'er field, the yelping pack
Dash swift, from couples freed;
O'er heath, o'er field, close on their track,
Loud neighs the fiery steed.
And now the Sabbath's holy dawn
Beam'd high with purple ray,
And bright each hallowed temple's dome
Reflected back the day.
Now deep and clear the pealing bells
Struck on the list'ning ear,
And heaven-ward rose from many a voice
The hymn of praise and prayer.
Swift, swift along the crossway, still
They speed with eager cry:
See! right and left, two horsemen strange
Their rapid coursers ply.
Who were the horsemen right and left?
That may I guess full well:
Who were the horsemen right and left?
That may I never tell.
The right, of fair and beauteous mien,
A milk-white steed bestrode;
Mild as the vernal skies, his face
With heavenly radiance glow'd.
The left spurr'd fast his fiery barb,
Red as the furnace flame;
Sullen he loured, and from his eyes
The death-like lightning came.
'Right welcome to our noble sport;'
The baron greets them fair;
'For well I wot ye hold it good
To banish moping care.
'No pleasure equal to the chase,
Or earth, or heaven can yield;'
He spoke,--he waved his cap in air,
And foremost rushed afield.
'Turn thee!' the milder horseman cries;
'Turn thee from horns and hounds!
Hear'st not the bells, hear'st not the quire,
Mingle their sacred sounds?
'They drown the clamor of the chase;
Oh! hunt not then to-day,
Nor let a fiend's advice destroy
Thy better angel's sway.'
'Hunt on, hunt on,' his comrade cries,
'Nor heed yon dotard's spell;
What is the bawling quire to us?
Or what the jangling bell?
'Well may the chase delight thee more;
And well may'st learn from me,
How brave, how princely is our sport,
From bigot terrors free.'
'Well said! well said! in thee I own
A hero's kindled fire;
These pious fool'ries move not us,
We reck nor priest, nor quire.
'And thou, believe me, saintlike dolt,
Thy bigot rage is vain;
From prayers and beadrolls, what delight
Can sportsmen hope to gain?'
Still hurry, hurry, on they speed
O'er valley, hill and plain;
And ever at the baron's side
Attend the horsemen twain.
See, panting, see, a milk-white hart
Up-springs from yonder thorn:
'Now swiftly ply both horse and foot;
Now louder wind the horn!'
See, falls a huntsman! see, his limbs
The pangs of death distort!
'Lay there and rot: no caitiff's death
Shall mar our princely sport.'
Light bounds with deftest speed the hart,
Wide o'er the country borne;
Now closer prest a refuge seeks
Where waves the ripening corn.
See, the poor owner of the field
Approach with tearful eyes;
'O pity, pity, good my lords!'
Alas! in vain he cries.
'O spare what little store the poor
By bitter sweat can earn!'
Now soft the milder horseman warns
The baron to return.
Not so persuades his stern compeer,
Best pleas'd with darkest deeds;
Tis his to sway the baron's heart,
Reckless what mercy pleads.
'Away!' the imperious noble cries;
'Away, and leave us free!
Off! or by all the powers of hell,
Thou too shalt hunted be!
'Here, fellows! let this villain prove
My threats were not in vain:
Loud lash around his piteous face
The whips of all my train.'
Tis said, tis done: swift o'er the fence
The baron foremost springs;
Swift follow hound, and horse, and man,
And loud the welkin rings.
Loud rings the welkin with their shouts,
While man, and horse, and hound,
Ruthless tread down each ripening ear,
Wide o'er the smoking ground.
O'er heath and field, o'er hill and dale,
Scared by the approaching cries,
Still close pursued, yet still unreach'd,
Their destin'd victim flies.
Now mid the lowing herds that graze
Along yon verdant plain,
He hopes, concealed from every eye,
A safe retreat to gain.
In vain, for now the savage train
Press ravening on his heels:
See, prostrate at the baron's feet
The affrighted herdsman kneels.
Fear for the safety of his charge
Inspires his faltering tongue;
'O spare,' he cries, 'these harmless beasts,
Nor work an orphan's wrong.
'Think, here thy fury would destroy
A friendless widow's all!'
He spoke:--the gentle stranger strove
To enforce soft pity's call.
Not so persuades his sullen frere,
But pleas'd with darkest deeds;
Tis his to sway the baron's heart,
Reckless what mercy pleads.
'Away, audacious hound!' he cries;
'Twould do my heart's-blood good,
Might I but see thee transform'd to beasts
Thee and thy beggar brood.
'Then, to the very gates of heaven,
Who dare to say me nay!
With joy I'd hunt the losel fry;
Come fellows, no delay!'
See, far and wide the murderous throng
Deal many a deadly wound;
Mid slaughter'd numbers, see, the hart
Sinks bleeding on the ground.
Yet still he summons all his strength
For one poor effort more,
Staggering he flies; his silver sides
Drop mingled sweat and gore.
And now he seeks a last retreat
Deep in the darkling dell,
Where stands, amidst embowering oaks,
A hermit's holy cell.
E'en here the madly eager train
Rush swift with impious rage,
When, lo! persuasion on his tongue,
Steps forth the reverend sage.
'O cease thy chase! nor thus invade
Religion's free abode;
For know, the tortur'd creature's groans
E'en now have reach'd his god.
'They cry at heaven's high mercy seat,
For vengeance on thy head;
O turn, repentant turn, ere yet
The avenging bolt is sped.'
Once more religion's cause in vain
The gentle stranger pleads;
Once more, alas! his sullen frere
A willing victim leads.
'Dash on!' the harden'd sinner cries;
'Shalt thou disturb our sport?
No! boldly would I urge the chase
In heaven's own inmost court.
'What reck I then thy pious rage?
No mortal man I fear:
Not god in all his terrors arm'd
Should stay my fix'd career.'
He cracks his whip, he winds his horn,
He calls his vassal-crew;
Lo! horse and hound, and sage and cell,
All vanish from his view.
All, all, are gone!--no single rack
His eager eye can trace;
And silence, still as death, has hush'd
The clamors of the chase.
In vain he spurs his courser's sides,
Nor back nor forward borne;
He winds his horn, he calls aloud,
But hears no sound return.
And now inclos'd in deepest night,
Dark as the silent grave,
He hears the sullen tempest roar,
As roars the distant wave.
Loud and louder still the storm
Howls through the troubled air;
Ten thousand thunders from on high
The voice of judgment bear.
Accursed before god and man,
Unmoved by threat or prayer;
Creator, nor created, aught
Thy frantic rage would spare.
'Think not in vain creation's lord
Has heard his creature's groan;
E'en now the torch of vengeance flames
High by his awful throne.
'Now, hear thy doom! to aftertimes
A dread example given,
For ever urge thy wild career,
By fiendish hell-hounds driven.'
The voice had ceased; the sulphurous flash
Shot swift from either pole;
Sore shook the grove; cold horror seized
The trembling miscreant's soul.
Again the rising tempest roars,
Again the lightnings play;
And every limb, and every nerve
Is frozen with dismay.
He sees a giant's swarthy arm
Start from the yawning ground;
He feels a demon grasp his head,
And rudely wrench it round.
In torrents now from every side,
Pours fast a fiery flood;
On each o'erwhelming wave upborne,
Loud howls the hellish brood.
Sullen and grisly gleams the light,
Now red, now green, now blue;
Whilst o'er the gulf the fiendish train
Their destined prey pursue.