THE DJINNS

 ("Murs, ville et port.") 
 
 {XXVIII., Aug. 28, 1828.} 


 Town, tower, 
 Shore, deep, 
 Where lower 
 Cliff's steep; 
 Waves gray, 
 Where play 
 Winds gay, 
 All sleep. 
 
 Hark! a sound, 
 Far and slight, 
 Breathes around 
 On the night 
 High and higher, 
 Nigh and nigher, 
 Like a fire, 
 Roaring, bright. 
 
 Now, on 'tis sweeping 
 With rattling beat, 
 Like dwarf imp leaping 
 In gallop fleet 
 He flies, he prances, 
 In frolic fancies, 
 On wave-crest dances 
 With pattering feet. 
 
 Hark, the rising swell, 
 With each new burst! 
 Like the tolling bell 
 Of a convent curst; 
 Like the billowy roar 
 On a storm-lashed shore,— 
 Now hushed, but once more 
 Maddening to its worst. 
 
 O God! the deadly sound 
 Of the Djinn's fearful cry! 
 Quick, 'neath the spiral round 
 Of the deep staircase fly! 
 See, see our lamplight fade! 
 And of the balustrade 
 Mounts, mounts the circling shade 
 Up to the ceiling high! 
 
 'Tis the Djinns' wild streaming swarm 
 Whistling in their tempest flight; 
 Snap the tall yews 'neath the storm, 
 Like a pine flame crackling bright. 
 Swift though heavy, lo! their crowd 
 Through the heavens rushing loud 
 Like a livid thunder-cloud 
 With its bolt of fiery might! 
 
 Ho! they are on us, close without! 
 Shut tight the shelter where we lie! 
 With hideous din the monster rout, 
 Dragon and vampire, fill the sky! 
 The loosened rafter overhead 
 Trembles and bends like quivering reed; 
 Shakes the old door with shuddering dread, 
 As from its rusty hinge 'twould fly! 
 Wild cries of hell! voices that howl and shriek! 
 The horrid troop before the tempest tossed— 
 O Heaven!—descends my lowly roof to seek: 
 
 Bends the strong wall beneath the furious host. 
 Totters the house as though, like dry leaf shorn 
 From autumn bough and on the mad blast borne, 
 Up from its deep foundations it were torn 
 To join the stormy whirl. Ah! all is lost! 
 
 O Prophet! if thy hand but now 
 Save from these hellish things, 
 A pilgrim at thy shrine I'll bow, 
 Laden with pious offerings. 
 Bid their hot breath its fiery rain 
 Stream on the faithful's door in vain; 
 Vainly upon my blackened pane 
 Grate the fierce claws of their dark wings! 
 
 They have passed!—and their wild legion 
 Cease to thunder at my door; 
 Fleeting through night's rayless region, 
 Hither they return no more. 
 Clanking chains and sounds of woe 
 Fill the forests as they go; 
 And the tall oaks cower low, 
 Bent their flaming light before. 
 
 On! on! the storm of wings 
 Bears far the fiery fear, 
 Till scarce the breeze now brings 
 Dim murmurings to the ear; 
 Like locusts' humming hail, 
 Or thrash of tiny flail 
 Plied by the fitful gale 
 On some old roof-tree sere. 
 
 Fainter now are bornen's m Feeble mutterings still; mail As when Arab horn 
 Swells its magic peal, 
 Shoreward o'er the deep 
 Fairy voices sweep, 
 And the infant's sleep 
 Golden visions fill. 
 
 Each deadly Djinn, 
 Dark child of fright, 
 Of death and sin, 
 Speeds in wild flight. 
 Hark, the dull moan, 
 Like the deep tone 
 Of Ocean's groan, 
 Afar, by night! 
 
 More and more 
 Fades it slow, 
 As on shore 
 Ripples flow,— 
 As the plaint 
 Far and faint 
 Of a saint 
 Murmured low. 
 
 Hark! hist! 
 Around, 
 I list! 
 The bounds 
 Of space 
 All trace 
 Efface 
 Of sound. 
 
 JOHN L. O'SULLIVAN. 


 

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