{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_30391/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_30391","id":"gutenberg_30391","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/30391","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Poetry","Category: Science-Fiction & Fantasy","Poetry"],"text":"BETELGUESE\n\n  _A TRIP THROUGH HELL_\n\n  By JEAN LOUIS De ESQUE\n\n  _Author of \"The Flight of a Soul\", etc._\n\n\n  JERSEY CITY\n  CONNOISSEUR'S PRESS\n  1908\n\n\n\n  Copyright, 1907 and 1908, by\n  _Jean Louis de Esque_\n  _Entered at Stationers' Hall, London, E. C._\n  _All Rights Reserved_\n\n\n\n\nTO\n\n  Those that felt the wand of Muse--\n  Queen Posy's shaft of subtle art--\n  Seared to the distant heights of blue,\n  Past onyx lees that Sunsets dyed,\n  And put to Vellum Couplets' fuse,\n  Sped same to Fate with timid heart,\n  Then shed dim tears in Sorrow's pew,\n  This work's respectfully inscribed.\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\n\nTo the readers of this poem an apology is needed for affixing thereto a\npraem. Some friends of mine have been plaguing me beyond the restrictive\nline of Patience for the true cause of conceiving the accompanying\ncollection of words, balderdash or what you will, some even asseverating\nwith the eruditeness of an Aristole that it was a nebulous idea, an\nembryonic form of thought hibernating within the cavities of my sinciput's\ninner apex, the remnants of that wild phantasmagoric dream of \"vicious,\nvulpine labyrinths of hell,\" partly expounded in my \"The Flight of a\nSoul.\"\n\nNow to satisfy everybody but my friends I throw my prejudices to the winds\nand confess, to wit: That I, with the buckler of Will, wooed Oblivion on\nSeptember the sixth at exactly 5 P.M., having been up at my desk mauling\nand drubbing the English language with a vengeance for thirty-six\nconsecutive hours, and that I awoke at 12.30 A.M. that selfsame night with\nthe entire contents of the accompanying----? (have as yet not decided in\nwhat category the critics will consign this weird hypotyposis of the\nSupernal) jingling through my tired brain. I set to work at exactly 12.45\nA.M. and wrote until our esteemed companions of the nocturnal hours ceased\ntheir unloved music (mosquitos), 5.05 A.M., hied myself back to bed and\nhypothecated as many winks as Dame Slumber saw fit to allot to me, who am\nat continued war with her silent wand. The same tactics were employed\nduring the succeeding fifteen nights, wherein I penned eight thousand one\nhundred and sixteen (8116) lines. This is the truth, the whole and\nintegral truth, and nothing but the unexpurgated truth, so help me Muse\n(she's blind as a bat) and Satan, of whom I've writ in such an unbecoming\nmanner that, henceforth, I must perforce seek my future Elysian in other\nhaunts than those of the above named Cosmopoietic's own, for fear that his\nuncoped wrath may blast me into an ape-faced minstrel or, like one\nred-haired varlet draped with the cognomen of \"Nero,\" use my unbleached\nbones for illuminating the highway to his insidiate lair.\n\nTo the readers this question may present itself, to wit: Why place Hell in\nthe bowels of Betelguese? Why not the sun or moon?\n\nIn the first instance the former sphere is eliminated as a possibility on\naccount of its nature. Being a huge nucleous mass of a\u00ebriform fluid,\nnothing containing animal or vegetable life could possibly exist either\non or within its bowels. The moon, too, is excluded for the same reason as\nis our earth, it having at one time been a part of the latter, broken off\nby one of the giant planets long before the pleioncene era. Betelguese\nbeing a celestial pariah, an outcast, the largest of all known comets or\noutlawed suns in the universe; and, further, so long as Hell has not been\ndefinitely placed, why not figure this hybrid planet as a possibility?\n\nAstronomers throughout the world remember the colossal outburst in the\nconstellation Perseus that occurred on February 20, 1901, when one sun\nexploded, or two made collision with appalling force. It was observed\nthrough telescopes and could be seen with the naked eye in full daylight.\nBoth suns were destroyed as suns--that is, they were turned into thin gas\nand vanished from sight of the largest telescope within less than a year.\n\nHad each sun been the centre of a system of eight worlds like our sun; and\nimagine each world, sixteen in all, to be inhabited with human beings;\nthen they all perished in a short time after collision and died of what\nthe astronomers call \"fervent heat.\"\n\nVega, far more larger than our sun, appears stationary. Our sun, with its\nfamily of moons and comets, is moving toward it at the fearful pace of\nfourteen miles per second. At its present rate of speed--and if Vega is\nreally a \"fixed\" planet--then our sun would reach it in 320,000 years.\nHowever, it is a known certainty that the quantity of matter that is\ninvisible is so much greater than the visible that the visible may be\nignored. There may, too, be hundreds of millions of dark bodies, extinct\nconstellations far larger than our own sun. Any one of these could\napproach our solar system and annihilate it with its impact for, in\npassing the orbit of the earth on their way around the sun, they attain a\nregular velocity of 26-1/2 miles per second. If one of these dark comets\nshould overtake the earth and strike it, the velocity of impact would be\nabout eight miles per second; but if it should meet the earth in a head-on\ncollision, the speed, when it struck, would be forty-five miles per\nsecond, a momentum beyond the power of the brain to fathom--indeed, man\ncan not think of sixty miles per minute. Let a solid nucleous collide with\nthe earth and imagination would reel at the result.\n\nThe earth moves over 18-1/2 miles every second, and this added to or\nsubtracted from 26-1/2 makes 45 or 8. If a comet should strike at right\nangles to the direction of the earth's motion the speed of collision would\nbe 26-1/2 miles. But 8, 26-1/2 or even 15 would hurl destruction if large\nenough.\n\nA visible change is taking place in the giant sun Betelguese. Its nebul\u00e6\nis slowly but surely disappearing. One hundred years hence it may be a\ndark planet, invisible to even the most powerful telescope. However, Hell\nwill reign on, through eons and eons; and, if this sun, or any other,\ncontains its kingdom, and mankind lives for another thousand years or\nmore, those who should be so unfortunate as to miss the jagged heights to\nParadise need not worry, for glozing imps will lead them to the fasthold\nof Typhon's weird home. Have no fear.\n\nSeptember 22d, MCMVII.\n\n\n\n\nWHEN I AM GONE\n\n\n  What good is Fame when I am dead and gone,\n  When in immarcescible regions\n  My temple rots and soul doth storm and mourn\n  As bones of mine adorn an early grave?\n  Who'll hear and know that I worked hard and long,\n  That twin sighs and tears storm'd me by legions,\n  My life, a sunless one--bleak and forlorn.\n  No ray of light whilst I in thralldom slave?\n\n  What good is Fame when I am dead and gone,\n  When in fenowed abyss', stark and cold,\n  I wend my solemn footsteps and atone,\n  Whilst Fame my brow doth crown with its renown?\n  Who'll know that heart and soul bled on and on,\n  That storm-swept aches and woes were mine untold,\n  My life a waste, from which there stole a moan,\n  No Aureole whilst I in sorrow drown?\n\n  What good is Fame when I am dead and gone,\n  When far and wide my praise is heard and sung,\n  And busts and marble-heads my deeds unfurl\n  To multitudes that knew me not in flesh?\n  Not when I'm gone care I for Renown's dawn,\n  Now, whilst I labour at Fame's lowest rung,\n  Let me reap dame Approval's brightest pearl\n  And sip its olpe as I my battles thresh.\n\n\n\n\nBETELGUESE\n\n\n  Caressed by crystal dews and light\n  Beyond the realm of scale and fin,\n  Incarian Thought flits Fancy wings\n  To hazards where a crimson urn\n  Makes scarlet this eternal height\n  Of sunless suns and reigning sin,--\n  Flame-decked this plain of warring kings\n  Where poisoned fumes and beacons burn!\n  And thro' the hyoids, huge and red,\n  Past portals black and guidons bright\n  To onyx lees and opal sands,\n  The Cyclopean vaults of dwale,\n  And cavern'd shapes that Typhon bled,\n  Greet each wand'ring spectre's sight;\n  Where pixies dance on wind-blown strands,\n  Lurke gyte incubi in a hall.\n  Here, then, reigns gyving, batter'd Doom!\n  Where shadows vague and coffined light,\n  Spit broths from splinter'd wracks and domes.\n  Where viscid mists and vulpine cries\n  Rise from the moat of dungeoned gloom\n  And rasp the stationed walls of night\n  Until sequester\u00e9d skulls and bones\n  Are made to hear the moaning sighs\n  That some mad Titan, rayed in gold,\n  Wrests from Damnation's siffling tomb.\n  And labyrinths of Horror's Home,\n  'Mid vapours green and aisles unsunned,\n  Provoke each cursing mattoid's fold\n  Until the night is changed to noon\n  By cowled magicians on a dome.\n  Then wizardry, strange, unsummed,\n  Reveals each varlet, Figgum's might:\n  A hemless rabble from the South\n  That some wild Trojan flayed and curs'd,\n  Skirr thro' the Cauldron's broken lane\n  And wing for implex strands and light.\n  There, where tapers flare on Hell's mouth\n  This clan damns each giant Soldan first.\n  And Medeas in this vast plain,\n  Who blink at yon dysodile lamps,\n  Slap thenars and each bifurcous\n  As javels drink from scyphus' bright.\n  Blood-curdling monsters on a rope\n  That sate upon the damn'd one's camps\n  As hell-winds gleam most glorious--\n  Each Vandal's music day or night!\n  Vain! vain! Each isle of hidden Hope!\n  Alas! Alas! Each olpe of Remorse!\n  Each vaulted soul and spiral thought,\n  Swirl in the throes of waters cold;\n  Where rivers with the venom crawls,\n  Croak bat-faced incubi till hoarse.\n  And succubi that Hecate taught,\n  Bedecked in byss and spangled gold,\n  Sing runes unto the dungeoned halls.\n  Then burning ghauts and crimsoned peaks,\n  Vomit each, green, abhorrent clouds;\n  The Temple's drum sounds tomb and death\n  To those that came for unsung trust,\n  And pyres that smoulder\u00e9d for three weeks.\n  Spit wenches' blood thro' addling crowds\n  And filch each leering vyper's breath,--\n  Vile japes that dam all struck with dust!\n  Erelong unholy fugitives roam\n  'Mid imbosk caves and moaning dales\n  To piercing screes of purple gloom,\n  Where gurgling sighs and rasping moans,--\n  Each bloody vampyre's home of loam\n  As life-tides drip to scarlet vales,--\n  Unshadowed haunts of darkling Doom!\n  Add terror to the rasping groans\n  That roaring surfs of rubic blood\n  Fling to each afrite's acrid crypt.\n  And mildewed skulls and ashen bones\n  That lie before each pillar\u00e9d mount,\n  Speak tidings of a leprous flood.\n  And where giants' carcants flare and sit,\n  The battle-crests and surging foams\n  That toss each swoll'n Cauldron's Count\n  As pyramidal realms unsunned\n  Glare at the stricken, tamper'd souls,\n  Stark wenches seek blind seers of lust\n  And curse each monster's hairless head.\n  Where fungus-fagots gleam unstunned\n  As witches dig unfathomed holes\n  And bury Helms in powder\u00e9d dust,\n  Sleep mourners of the newly dead\n  Until rayed Aureoles bright, flare,\n  And sparkle like Asian stars.\n  Hyperaspists of templ\u00e9d night,\n  And yawning caverns cold and bleak,\n  Forsake the crown of addling Care;\n  Whilst afrites in bright jeweled cars,\n  Lured by the phosphorescent light,\n  Scale an immarcescible peak.\n  When giant uncus' of the damn'd\n  Shake Palsy's wand of brooding Fear,\n  And Hecate spins her daughters round\n  The whirling halls of spastic gloom;\n  When afreets prance on blister'd sand\n  As blood-shot jazels deck each peer,\n  Each empire froths a raving hound\n  That storms each zone of purple doom.\n  And scarlet foam and hiss of oils,--\n  Abhorrent signs of yawning hell!\n  'Mid roaring winds and echoes loud\n  As beaches ring with Torture's hold,\n  Dim shapes writhe in a cauldron's coils\n  While cancer\u00e9d ghouls sound Circe's bell;\n  Where hideous screes stem the crowd,\n  Faffling gawks gleam like burnished gold.\n\n  A gangrel imp that Satan flayed,\n  Shrieks deeds of sin that man-wrecks wrought\n  Ere gyving Death each culprit smote;\n  Where straggling moonbeams cleft a dome,\n  A Prince in splendor stands arrayed\n  And rants his spleen unto a ghaut,\n  Where mongrel whelps their sorrows wrote\n  In channels with a harlot's bone.\n\n  A kingdom vast with jasper light\n  Greet jejune souls within this shoal,\n  Where witches lure each helot's eye,\n  Each gyving hoodlum, seer and sage.\n  In blazing tankards gleams a sight\n  As o'er their heads giant rocks roll,\n  Of skinless nudes that gasp and die\n  As poisoned lizards vent their rage.\n  Then, vile squats blast the eerie air!\n  Glozing gnomes of pond'rous built,\n  Peer at plagues that goddard's hold;\n  Writhe vermin in each ghoul-king's olpe,--\n  Blind death within a secret lair!\n  A varlet who his wine hath spilt\n  As Scorpions smote him treblefold,\n  Is thrown into a stagnant sea\n  By Lordly Helm of bad repute,\n  Whose visage, curl'd in ughly mien,\n  Vext at each leper's font of spleen,\n  Invokes a hairless witch to scan\n  The shambling hordes that boon refute,\n  Who lifts her unguis, long and lean,\n  To curse each vyper's bloody dream,\n  Each mongrel and forsaken man.\n  Then quivers that cippus' hurl'd\n  As templ\u00e9d vaults are splinter'd wide;\n  And fearful fancies cleave the night\n  When reeking gores pierce hollows black,\n  Smite vandals that in sleep are curl'd:\n  And naiads that the vapours hide\n  In shadows vague--Unholy light!\n  (Spectres to each soul on a wrack)\n  Dank caverns of each vaulted soul\n  With spiral thoughts of fever\u00e9d haste,\n  'Mid the throb of murderous life\n  In haunted zones of vandals gyte,\n  Squirm at the pulse of this blind shoal\n  Where blood-vein\u00e9d dreams and acrid waste\n  Cut thro' the senses like a knife\n  And bid Icarian Thought to sit\n  Below a bleak, untower'd home,\n  Where fagots that the skelp hath stunned--\n  Plunderers of unfathomed night!\n  Glare thro' black shadows vague with forms\n  Convulsed with cries that pierce each dome\n  As impeached gumps seek plains unsunned,\n  (Satellites to mounted Light!)\n  Teem in the wind-strewn crest of thorns\n  A phantom that a charnel urn\n  Spewed from its lap and cancer\u00e9d fold,--\n  Trophies of grim Destiny's crypt!\n  A burning pyre, whose deadly breath\n  Stir sighs of men as cesspools burn\n  A harlot strewn with virgin gold\n  That some malignant, stol'n script,\n  Condemn'd to witches' fateful death,\n  Spells reigning doom to one and all.\n\n  Where jarbling gumps ride hydras green,\n  And utter sharp, a curdling curse,\n  And wingless zimbs that storm each dell,\n  Glare at each shatter'd dome and wall\n  That speak of prowling apes in dream,\n  Of dragons drawing Horror's hearse\n  When bloody lanes of soulless hell\n  Bathed monstrous this eternal land.\n\n  When Soldans clasp dank Vellum old,\n  And carcants shine like scarlet foam,\n  With hiss of snakes and burning oils\n  As dirges sway both imps and damn'd,\n  A beacon's light that cleft Doom's fold,\n  Peers at the Cyclopean home\n  Of furnace-heat and writhing coils\n  Of immewed depths as cyphers red\n  Proclaim each gyving monster's deed.\n  And woful runes rake this giant gloom,\n  Phantastic coals lurk in the dust,\n  Blind whelps lie in an onyx bed\n  And ponder words as thumb-screws bleed\n  (Unto the music of king Doom)\n  Each gangrel villains heart of lust.\n\n  Beyond the halls of number\u00e9d dead\n  Where lambent lights and crystal dews\n  Invoke the ghouls to guard each tomb\n  That vandals of the sobbing night,\n  When hell-winds stir the conquered dead,\n  And thunder shook the mourner's pews,\n  Giant cavalcades of marshall\u00e9d Doom\n  March thro' the phosphorescent light\n  Unto the headland of the West,\n  Where pageantries of warriors bold\n  Scyle crafty sins and purple lusts\n  Until the peaks and portals bright,\n  Where buried kings are tombed at rest,\n  Sweat odours dank with Torpor's cold;\n  Infernal p\u00e6ons shake the busts\n  Of idols planted in the light.\n  And, ere immewed gyres froth black mists\n  Unto all ghauts and splinter'd domes\n  That cypher signs of dungeoned dell,\n  A turgid dawn arrays this vale,\n  Each dysodile scavenger sits\n  On a tomb and fondles gray bones;\n  An eyeless toad croaks from a well.\n  Then cosmic force forsakes each dale:\n  'Mis Cyclopean pulse of hell\n  Giant cauldrons vomit vapours green\n  And skirr thro' bristling lanes and halls:\n  Whilst beacons die and shrood each soul,\n  Dank tears drop on a fatal bell,\n  Wrought by a Titan's sombre queen,\n  Where graven vypers soop the walls\n  With blood from maidens scourged as toll.\n  Sentinel silence then holds gloom!\n  Vile squats curse roaring pools inflame,\n  A swarthy gump leers at the damn'd,\n  A sultry storm invades each realm.\n  Reared in incondite depths of doom\n  As shadows spell each sinner's name,\n  A Necromancer mounts a stand\n  That storms and sleet struck with their helm,\n  And smites the weird elements.\n\n  A cesspool stunn'd with offal's stench,\n  And ulexite--Each mattoid's curse!\n  Set in twin ridges black and red,\n  Obtest the foam-sprayed battlements\n  To count the blood-drops on a bench\n  That the coals of Tartarus nurse--\n  Disastrous, imbosked Torture's bed!\n  Make viscous this grim philster's hold.\n\n  Saffron Teocalli in the West,\n  Whose spir\u00e9d domes hold priceless stones,\n  And censers' fumes lull sighs and moans\n  As barriers dank, flee their fold,\n  Betrayed by crystals on a crest\n  That ride this kingdom's batter'd gnomes,\n  A fitful syrinx stills all groans\n  As chasms roar with devils' glee.\n  Then fancies greet each goblin's eye,\n  Each donga's depth and mount unsunned:\n  A quire's rune, in onyx dress,\n  And black-linkt harps with eyes that see\n  Each blood-set jazel in a sky,\n  Where heights eternal reign unstunned,\n  Pierce sylvan airs that wizards bless.\n  Come from sequester\u00e9d shoals of hell\n  Blithe pixies and lithe naiads fair\n  That revel till the ev'ning skies\n  Grow lustrous as Arcadian noon.\n  Then witches in an implex dell,\n  With stranggling robes and burnished hair,\n  Flee thro' Autumnal shades and dyes,\n  While quickly from the sandal\u00e9d gloom,\n  That struggles at the pillar\u00e9d light,\n  Provoked by turbid drops of blood,\n  She gleams upon a tower'd home\n  That gyving hands, of crafty imps,\n  Reared for the Vandals of the night,\n  Where seething pores froth devils' flood,\n  And dusky shales leak scarlet foam,\n  Or lightly lifts her feet and skimps\n  Unto a rubic, bower\u00e9d vale,\n  To list unto a clanging bell\n  That spells these signs to startl\u00e9d wrecks,--\n  Titan's satellites, Hell and Circe!\n  The end of her who sought a dale\n  Below a weird, dungeoned well,\n  That coffins sunken battle-decks\n  And a phantasmagoric hearse.\n\n  To muse in gorce's dank and bleak\n  'Mid shatter'd mounts that devil's split!\n  To mourn in plasmic Temple's fold\n  With gyving sod no King can shirk!\n  A spangl\u00e9d pomp of Death's gray peak\n  Where owls and lizards blink and sit\n  As curdling cries of monsters cold\n  Pierce hollows deep until they irk,\n  Each surf-thrown afrite's eclipsed dome.\n  And cursing clans that felt the heat\n  That dwale obscured in shadows vague,\n  Clash thro' the broken forest boughs\n  Until each ronyon's stuck in loam.\n  There, then, bivouacs a unco Cheat,\n  Whose limbs were struck with pains of ague,\n  Who lifts his sightless eyes and sows\n  The seeds of Thaumaturgist's arts.\n  Then shakes his fist above all necks\n  (Whenas the dirges pierce the gloom)\n  And sheds his addling tears of woe.\n  Perturb\u00e9d at sights of flashing darts\n  That dragons hurl amongst soul-wrecks,\n  He smites a staff upon a tomb\n  Where phosphorescent torches glow,\n  And mouths his words at earless owls,\n  Past ribboned dusk and pillar\u00e9d woe,\n  Where sonless maids their sorrows heal,\n  And mixes purple mists with light,\n  Both moaning airs and cringing howls,\n  The swirling skelp that heavens show,\n  And changes this vast plane of weal,\n  This kingdom's tomb of rasping night\n  To elfin cheer as dances bloom,\n  And speeds his flight from Terror's urn,\n  Past jasper lanes where moonstones glow,\n  And turns his eyes at writhing Hell,\n  Upon the spectral haunts of Doom,\n  Where fiends in hissing Cesspoles burn\n  'Mid howls of pain from vassals flow\n  That rake each skull-blown vale and dell.\n\n  Where syrt sucks jargling javels mad,\n  And carcants cast a luring light\n  From mildewed screes and mounts that scyle\n  Veiled augueries of battling Hell,\n  A charnel shard assails the damn'd\n  Thro' vapours green and siffling night;\n  Monastic caverns rasp each isle;\n  A poisoned skink croaks from a well.\n  And mournful wraiths sob hard and loud,\n  A smother\u00e9d sigh proclaims more woe,\n  The lounging imps grasp tomes of old\n  And rant therefrom each damn'd one's name.\n  And horrors, snarling at each crowd,\n  Assail each kingdom with its show:\n  A noctivagous dragon bold,\n  Hastes thro' the aisles of death and shame\n  And haunts the cajons of the dead,\n  There fungus-tapers gleam like gold\n  Before a ghoul-king's jeweled throne:\n  There, too, upon a Temple's arch,\n  Bivouacs a witch who scans the bed\n  Of buried kings and queens struck cold\n  And lifts her voice to splinter'd dome\n  To stem the brooding Djinnee march,\n  And with the dusk that meteors split,\n  She tries the figgum of her lust,\n  And throws her voice at portals dark,\n  Past burning pyres, where moaning airs\n  Call the help of Conjury's script;\n  And, ere cyphers burn in the dust\n  The names of new souls in this ark,\n  The ghosts of the dead prance in pairs.\n  This is the sphere of Dust and Tomb!\n  Where Trojans struck with palsied Death\n  As Satan smote each cavern's fold,\n  And whistling heat swirl'd Circe around\n  The coffined slabs of Ae\u00e6a's womb,\n  When kingdoms fought with rasping breath\n  As stellar domes grew black and cold,\n  Auric oriflammes storm'd the mount\n  As bristling lances smote giant hordes;\n  Then gorey devils fought with lust\n  As vulpine cries smote each jinn's ear,\n  Black Dragons swore beneath their breath\n  And murdered all rebellious Lords;\n  Strong hands that knew each axe's trust,\n  Escutcheons that all princes fear,\n  Hurl'd swift destruction and black death.\n  Where Titans storm'd a Monarch's throne,\n  There sleeps a Ruler carved in stone;\n  Where vultures guard a serpent's home,\n  A quarter\u00e9d warrior tells its tale.\n  Perturb\u00e9d at dews that drip from dome\n  As wattling apes their horrors groan,\n  The witch forsakes each glozing gnome,\n  Affrighted at this gurgling vale.\n\n  On crimson mounts where hydras peer--\n  Affronting devils in the gloom!\n  Unsypher\u00e9d regions wrapped in light\n  That hide dank vapours of each tomb,\n  Lurk throaty imps throughout the year\n  Who sing their runes as lepers soom;\n  Red-embered gnomes within this night\n  Where scarlet dyes bathe Torture's womb!\n  And Djinnee gasps add to the sight\n  That dragon-worms bred in this surge,\n  Build temples for queen Sorrow's home;\n  And pageantries of Typhon's bloom--\n  Immarcescible sklayres of night!\n  And shadows bleak, that sins do purge--\n  A show for Satan on this throne!\n  Invoke the Cauldron's spraying gloom\n  To newer deeds of hell-lashed lust;\n  Tho' dusky wizards rake the skies\n  (Eternal hounds that all beguile)\n  Unstable dreams lure Fancy fane\n  Below this star's unfathomed dust,\n  Where shatter'd domes list to the sighs\n  Of skinless wenches on an isle,\n  Where nymphs call her Christian name.\n  Where purple mists like poppies bloom--\n  Dank dulse within green rivers cold!\n  A flayed and sobbing maid doth lie;\n  Eternal curse of bedlam night\n  Speak of sepulchral haunts of Doom;\n  Unnumber\u00e9d skulls their woes have told\n  To studded domes and opaque sky\n  Beneath the Arching vales of light.\n  Alight with fires red and green\n  That show the coffers of each tomb,\n  Jarbling vandals rake the night-coals,\n  Shales and husks; and, ere reigning night\n  Provokes each harlot's fitful dream\n  To cleave the casements of king Doom\n  And reach the swoll'n, acrid shoals,\n  Where stationed Mounts are penciled white\n  That mark the maw of raging hell,\n  Till, eyes awake stare at each flame\n  Unsung and, on boulders that burn,\n  Peer at two lordly squats in dust\n  As wenches drink from poisoned well,\n  'Mid purple sins and naked shame\n  In Typhon's olpe and churning urn\n  Of stranded devils, souls and lust.\n\n  When earthly homes are tombed in dust,\n  And Life forsakes geotic shoals;\n  When midst the tombs of penetence,\n  When coffins damp, and slimmy clay,\n  Each Lordly Helm is tossed in trust\n  To spiral vaults from plasmic holes,\n  Convolving cyclones spin him hence\n  As agate torches light his way.\n  Unmutter\u00e9d sighs teem in the air\n  As structural stars pass him by,\n  And twisting clouds shape eerie forms\n  Until he reaches Satan's home.\n  Unholy visions curse and swear,\n  Gyte vypers lull each demon's sigh,\n  Giant Dragons whom no Remorse storms,\n  Shake fists at opals in a dome.\n  And Cesspools vext with odours strong\n  From stifling shard and putrid dung,\n  'Mid caverns large and Cauldrons deep,\n  Vile squats in teeming pewter burn;\n  And shrieking vypers wield a prong\n  Above a monster, quarter'd hung.\n  The Tasmanian Devils keep\n  The sod turn'd in a gyre's urn\n  That no lost soul can undulate:\n  Hence seers and sages, tossed in sin,\n  Rant rubics to each reigning king,\n  Each glowing pyre is fed with oil\n  By afreets reared on bottled hate;\n  Infernal tapers light this Inn\n  As poisoned vapours to us cling;\n  Re-embered beacons on this soil\n  Flare spastic shadows to each tomb.\n\n  In vain we sigh for fleeing grace\n  Within the pale of turbid dyes!\n  In vain we look for hope, sweet rest,\n  Within this crypt of whistling Doom!\n  When in monastic nights of haze\n  The battlements retard giant sighs;\n  When marshall\u00e9d mists from out the West\n  Cloak ramparts black with ughly light,\n  A rubic Soldan rakes each ghaut,\n  Each sleeping vandal, imp and soul.\n  No astral eyes laugh from these skies,\n  No nightingales sing in the night;\n  A dungeoned curse that villains wrought\n  Rasp each eternal vault and shoal.\n  Then one-eyed mongrels split the dyes\n  Of roaring winds and raging storms,\n  Dim shapes flee to the haunts of gore,--\n  Each Cyclopean Dragon's goal!\n  And groaning cries from maidens fair\n  Is heard by spectral, gangrel forms,--\n  The writhing thin is flayed some more!\n  Its secret sins,--Black deeds of Soul--\n  Is scourged as copper-burnished hair\n  Hangs from her alabaster head,\n  Both feet and arms are screwed till black--\n  A sign that Hell reigns on, unstunned.\n  Then incense swung by priestesses,\n  Salute the newly, plunder'd dead,\n  The bloody sight upon the wrack,\n  Where cringing groans once rose unsummed,\n  Is cover'd by the murderess.\n\n  Where restless hawks and chainless ghouls\n  Blink bleary orbs at dust and stone;\n  And glozing night-gnomes love the sight\n  That geysers toss upon their crest,\n  Feal afrites bathe in a pool\n  And wash each harlot's bloody bone.\n  Scorpions on serai's height\n  Peer at each forge's raging breast,\n  Whilst faffling gumps and hairless seers\n  Stretch shanks and arms and yawn till hoarse,\n  And vapours green and beacons red,\n  Feared coming Dawn, and fled in haste;\n  The bulwarks that each hoodlum fears,\n  Sink in a cajon's livid course;\n  The winds and storms are silent, dead,\n  As barriers red bathe the waste.\n  What of the sight when Horrors swirl,\n  When oceans ring with Terror's roll?\n  What of the galley-decks and wrecks\n  That felt the force of angry Hell?\n  When kingdoms fought each warring Earl,\n  The incubi cursed each lost soul;\n  When vandals broke the idols' necks,\n  Giant battle-axes smote each dell.\n  And, then came there galvanic gloom!\n  An acrid oath and savage howl,\n  Hurl'd at an idol's austere ghoul\n  By grizzled rogue and mocking gnome,\n  Perturb\u00e9d as vandals shine and bloom\n  In robes of pearl and tazzled cowl,\n  Throw Hecate's spawn into a pool\n  Who stung them with a poisoned bone.\n  This wanton witch of evil fame,\n  Vamped with both hatred, murder, lust,\n  Speeds cycles of the Future's curse\n  And damns each goblin, skink and knave.\n  Then pyres and ghauts flare once again,\n  The halls are swept with burning dust,\n  Six Dragons bear the dead one's hearse\n  Unto the newly, opened grave.\n\n  Ere the quaking Dawn shakes its crown\n  To tower'd peaks and hyoids red\n  That hide blind fathoms of this sea,\n  An opal light arrays each plain;\n  Each naiad rumps on velvet down;\n  A bat-shapped Buzzard makes its bed;\n  A red-tongued Gecko storms each lee.\n  Then apes and adders writhe with pain\n  As Cauldrons vomit oils that burn;\n  'Mid churning storms of stinging sleet,\n  Vial haunts of gore spill their quest\n  And murder with unholy lust,\n  Wilst fagots, beacons, torches, turn\n  Hell's Pompeian shoals to heat;\n  And viscid mists rise in the West--\n  Dank treasures of Damnation's dust!\n  In search of silence, sleep and rest.\n\n  When in a vale we lie and dream\n  Of sanded beach and laughing skies,\n  When Fancy lifts her wings and soars\n  To agate strands and ocean's breast,\n  A gangrel soul begins to scream\n  Black tokens of prevailing sighs\n  As furnace-ovens sweat giant pores.\n  And other things perturb each crypt,\n  Each vulture's brood and figent owls:\n  A belching mountain in the South\n  Hurls boulders thro' the fearful night:\n  A demon-quire rants from script,\n  Led by staccato raspings, howls;\n  A meteor vaults a Cauldron's mouth;\n  A sombre maid doth long for light.\n  Bleak wintry winds engulf us all--\n  Hosannah! cry the fretful mobs;\n  White-heated storms assail all heads--\n  Triumphal p\u00e6ons shake the air!\n  Unnumber\u00e9d gawks roam thro' each hall--\n  Where Typhon sits, a maiden sobs!\n  Conscience stabs our nightly beds,\n  Remorse leers daily at dame Care.\n\n  A Donga, deep with squirming gnats\n  And acrid coils,--a hole of Death!\n  And runnels thick with arid dung,\n  Flow past a Temple's swoll'n arch,\n  Where warring tribes of hungry cats\n  Fish for green lizards filched of breath;\n  A palace-dome where runes are sung\n  As Satan views his squadron's march,\n  Flare twin mineral lights of blue\n  That lure each legion foul of home.\n  Swarm Trojans right and left with sword;\n  Skirr gloppened worriers thro' the night;\n  Roar puteals that toads eschew;\n  Hiss brown snakes to each toothless gnome,\n  Affrighted at the raving horde\n  That crash thro' leprous filth and light--\n  Disastrous sights of men gone mad!\n  And pyramidal wall of rock\n  Are battle-grounds for waging lust:\n  A clashing lance spun vypers round\n  The gyrus rind where helots clad\n  Each Thaumaturgist in a frock,\n  The sign of which spake added trust\n  Unto each ghoul-king's able hound.\n  Crafty Lords of militant mien,\n  Led vanquished to the slaughter-pen;\n  Thumb-screws and bastinados work\n  Both Devils' pomp and Soldans' joy;\n  And tantrums coarse in cesspools teem\n  As women sob for dying men:\n  The wracks that djinnee fear and shirk,\n  Are Torture's friend--A Monster's toy!\n\n  The rayless styes that guard the bones\n  Of fall'n kings and grizzled hordes,\n  The mildewed screes that hold the skulls\n  Of shambling spectres, wraiths, and souls,\n  Now waft the spir\u00e9d, rasping tones\n  Of risen helots, princes, lords;\n  And all up-rising mists from hulls\n  That stranded on these jejune shoals,\n  Evaporate when amber lights\n  Cleave phantom-screens and huddles black.\n  (For this each pixie sings for cheer)\n  Arcadian sights then hold sway:\n  Each corporal gump loves the sights--\n  The hidden past (an endless track)\n  Reviews each garner\u00e9d Greek and year,\n  Each warrior bold and lassie gay.\n\n  Sanious lights beyond the height,\n  Imbosked dysodile vaults of dwale\n  As ulexite flare in the rocks\n  Where implex aisles lead to gyte doom,\n  Lure illaqueate Thought to flight,\n  And at a Cyon, chained in stall,\n  Whom mad Medeas shore of locks,\n  Chase Fancy's wings where hazards bloom.\n  Here herculean dwangs of gold,\n  Clasped in talons of Circe's son,\n  Pry portals of Teocalli as,\n  When hyoids blaze like sea-linkt skies,\n  Incondite imps seek grovels cold,\n  Unfathomed haunts that scyle each sun,\n  We see above the lees green grass\n  Where pixies laugh with dancing eyes,--\n  King Wonder's sight that holds each heart!\n  Above the rind of Ursa's wake,\n  Past shadows vague and sunless suns,\n  Giant visions of the cancell\u00e9d past\n  Rise from the void and play their part.\n  Demeter floats around a lake;\n  Where waters with a naiad runs,\n  Hector's shot by Archilles' dart;\n  Where Orestes stabs his mother,\n  Agamemnon sleeps on in cold;\n  Aegisthus robs a queen of all;\n  Andromache sobs tears of woe.\n  And Clytaemenestra's lover,\n  Like Menelous, is strong and bold:\n  Aeneas on a burning wall\n  Carries Anchises from the show.\n  Then vulgar scenes stare at each soul,\n  Hair-raising visions greet each eye;\n  Priam's son is dragged round ancient Troy,\n  Tied fast to a chariot's tail;\n  Andromeda's doomed as Death's toll;\n  Patroclus dies with a deep sigh.\n  Phyrrhus sacks Troy with a devilish joy;\n  Hecuba's nineteen sons now wail\n  As Mycenae and Tiryns are burn'd:\n  The Scaean Gate is storm'd by Peers!\n  Arch\u00e6ans and Phrygians bold\n  Have fought with Hatred's biting lust.\n  Telemachus whom the Fates have spurn'd,\n  Finds Ulysses in twenty years;\n  Thessalian Soldans in gold,\n  Like D\u00e6dalus, slept on in dust\n  As Penlope winged for distant zones.\n  Then Syran airs held each ear:\n  Bright carvels glowed with rubic wine,\n  Giant cyphers flared each Lordling's name\n  Within the haunts of dungeoned domes,\n  Where jazels peer the eyes of Fear,\n  And owls with a scorpion dine--\n  Twin Monarch's play the dice's game.\n\n  When beacons urticate each eye,\n  Noctivagous ghouls haste to stroke\n  Each goblin shank of hoary sage.\n  Then pomp of gloom breaks into bloom,\n  The Temple's arch cracks as we sigh,\n  A clashing sound above that spoke\n  Blind wrath unto each Wizard's rage,\n  Revealed the chasm of stark Doom.\n  Unto the peaks and gables black,\n  Syrian airs like Orpheus\n  Lull sequester\u00e9d afrites to sleep,\n  A witch smites her high biforous--\n  A symbol of king Typhon's wrack!\n  Where crystal lamps shine most glorious,\n  Twin legions lie in cajons bleak,--\n  Tokens of Hell invidious!\n  Then fades the burnished light on high;\n  Magicians stave their heads in dust,\n  The vermin feed on reeking bones,\n  Each gnome sobs to a green-horn'd toad.\n  And monarchs of this dungeoned sky\n  Untomb each son in sacred trust\n  As vypers sound their rasping tones,\n  Farewell the ancient Greek's abode!\n  Then spectres of the tower'd night,\n  (Vultures of the sun, moon and stars)\n  And bezzling parasites of dawn,\n  Haunt ichnolite of mourners cold;\n  Then purple sins bloom in the light\n  As vypers drive queens in bright cars;\n  Where dragons root the blistere'd lawn,\n  There reigns a curdling monster bold.\n  To scour these lanes of strobic gloom--\n  Infernal doom by mongrels' wrought!\n  To pace these aisles of whistling heat,\n  Eternal signs of souls gone wrong!\n  And when a skelp cleaves siffling doom,\n  And vapours scyle a greenish ghaut,\n  Rebellious vandals stamp their feet\n  As rulling Cyons wield hell's prong.\n  Then domes and walls sweat savage rage,\n  Each gangrel gnome is toss'd by fear,\n  The tombs provoke each inmate's keep\n  To curse the horrid atmosphere,\n  Where ghouls their battle-axes wage,\n  Froth devils' pomp throughout the year;\n  Where lizards o'er tath do creep,\n  Bivouacs a horney-fisted seer.\n\n  To groves of wind-swept ulmus' bear,\n  And siffling mists beyond a bell\n  That hide veiled shadows of a peak\n  Above the stationed domes of red,\n  Augueries of a marching pair,--\n  Twin demons of unconquer\u00e9d Hell!\n  Spell visions that the soffins leak\n  That felt the besom of the dead,\n  Just as the Twilight's scarlet urn\n  Is seen from heights unfathomed, strong.\n  There runnels of green waters cold,\n  Toss lepers from their murky breast;\n  There venom-oils and tapers burn\n  To light the way of souls gone wrong,--\n  Blood-stain\u00e9d each idol's crown of gold\n  Where battle-wrecks seek figent rest!\n\n  To the distant porphyry mount\n  Where agate torches shine most bright,\n  And syrinx's float music's charm\n  O'er the jargling herds of tombed,\n  A joggling javel begins to count,\n  With bleary eyes of grayish light,\n  The rubies on each idol's arm,\n  And whisper words unto the tombed.\n  Now to a churning gyre's pool\n  We haste to see a weird show,\n  Where Lordly Helms in vials squirm,\n  Each mongrel scoundrel's olpe of wine!\n  A Morgan gambles with a ghoul,\n  A Belmont writhes with sizzling woe,\n  A Rockefeller leads each worm,\n  Another's known as T. F. Ryan.\n  The browless whelp of oily fame\n  Is made to dig the burning soil,\n  The sheckles of a Pierpont king,\n  Secures no prestige in this Inn.\n  The gambling ghost whose middle name\n  Is \"Fortune\", spins within the swirl\n  Of waters cold and oceans' ring,\n  Condemned, forsaken for his sin.\n  On earth they plunder'd, robbed and stole\n  From month to month and year to year;\n  There Franchise-stealers cracked with leers\n  As Plebeians stung, groaned with might.\n  Now one and all damn'd on this shoal\n  Yuck addling brains and shriek with fear,\n  Now all shrink at Hell's laughing seers\n  As Remorse storms the ughly night.\n  Here Pat McCarrens filch no vote,\n  A Grady eats no mellow pea,\n  A Murphy owns no City Hall,\n  No Jeromes skew at dices' song.\n  On Vellum gray their sins are wrote\n  To murmurs of each sullen lee,\n  Racked with the wand of death and pall,\n  They blast their heads as souls gone wrong.\n  No presidential timber's found\n  Within these caverns, pools or dung;\n  No two-faced B's or bloated T's,\n  Lie to laymen, vassals, hordes.\n  Here politicians hear the sound\n  Of ballots that their hearts have wrung,\n  Of burning pyres and blister'd lees\n  That scorch these one-time kings and lords.\n  Here Conventions hold our eyes\n  As Dragons smite a gravel dome.\n  The kings of Finance, skinn'd and shorn,\n  Are list'ners in these halls of gloom.\n  Their deeds are read, they heave giant sighs,\n  Thumb-screws and wracks rake skin and bone,\n  In cajons bleak, each corpse forlorn,\n  Is sunk as trophies of king Doom.\n  No Depews sell their patron's love,\n  No faffling Platts guard treasures strong,\n  No Parkers, Roots,--The crafty things!\n  Betray a country's hope and trust.\n  No palm is brought them by a dove,\n  No minions shant their praise in song,\n  The poisoned zimbs add to the stings\n  Of conscience lost and raging lust.\n  Each one-time king of earthly fold\n  Is skinn'd alive then cooked in oil;\n  Some frazzled Astor dames and fools\n  Now eat their claws and chew a bone.\n  A monarch known as Leopold,\n  Writhes in a cavern's squeezing coil;\n  Here man-born helms are but the tools\n  Of Satan and each prowling gnome.\n  Their toes are screwed and eyes are bored,\n  Their ears are shorn and lips are split,\n  Each head is cracked, all tongues are cut,\n  By vypers red and bloody ghouls.\n  Affrighted as the dames are gored,\n  Each Sybarite his teeth doth grit,\n  The huddled pirates in a hut,\n  Shriek help unto the roaring pools.\n  And moaning airs their sorrows tell\n  That some unfathomed force hath bred.\n  Night-hawks rasp sins of women, men,\n  Who sold their honour, soul and name.\n  And tower'd screes that pierce giant hell\n  Are treasure-houses for the dead:\n  Each rich man writhes within a den,\n  Society dames proclaim their shame.\n  And offal, shard and putrid dung,\n  Is by affluent daughters born.\n  When in the ribboned mists above\n  A beacon flares and torches burn,\n  A Soldan from green earth is hung;\n  His heartless queen is cursed, forsworn,\n  Their souls house neither hope nor love\n  Within Damnation's burning urn.\n  Repress'd with hate and unspent rage\n  As charnel howls clash in each hall,\n  Each gyving hydra rends the air\n  With curses, hawps as rambling souls,\n  Lured by a grizzled warrior sage,\n  Storm moats before each bristling wall\n  And die as imps are bade to swear--\n  Infernal trophies of these shoals!\n  Immingled dreams their senses storm\n  As Westward shadows cloak each lee;\n  Where censers blaze they drag their limbs,\n  These cursed, forsaken whelps of hell!\n  Their ghastly sins on vellum's sworn,\n  Attested, sealed, they bend each knee!\n  Where devils rant blood-curdling hymns,\n  A raving wench drowns in a well.\n  Unto the coals of fever\u00e9d pyres\n  That glare like carcants red and white;\n  And glowing rubies in the dust\n  That lure each man-born skink and whelp,\n  The spastic cries and moaning sighs\n  Attest to Typhon's weird dight,--\n  And Satan's ichor of green lust,\n  Provokes the lashing heat and skelp.\n\n  Within the cathedral vaults of gloom,\n  The gorgeous pomp of the flayed,\n  In banded gold and marble flesh,\n  Speak of auguries to the damn'd,\n  Till, when censers' lights flare and bloom,\n  And shapes of men are laid arrayed\n  In gomes of steel, we tred the mesh\n  And grandeur of a conjured stand,\n  Where coral wreathes each hussy's brow,\n  Whose broken arms portray hell's lust,\n  Of whistling winzes, syrt and domes\n  That gleaming broths in anger wrought,\n  'Mid hiss of snakes and oils. So now,\n  When plunder\u00e9d tombs betray their trust,\n  And vandals screech at roving gnomes,\n  All raise a voice and curse each ghaut.\n\n  Beyond the ring and roll of hell--\n  And spiral lofts of quartz and gold--\n  We skirr upon the crutch of haste\n  And cleave the abyss, cold and bleak.\n  There jejune fossils lie to tell\n  Of pleiocene days' garner\u00e9d fold;\n  Gray bones that pierce this weird waste\n  Lie mounted on a torrid peak;\n  Principalities of the past,\n  Lie scatter'd in the mildewed dust;\n  Serai's built in ages gone,\n  Now crumble at a sound, a voice.\n  And Boulders that the Djinnee cast\n  As Vengeance swirl'd the heated dust,\n  Now rock as devils rasp a son,\n  And vampyres dance round and round.\n  And where a dim, unstudded dome\n  Leak odours strong and palsied light--\n  Twins of the Gloom! as some mad soul\n  Assails Typhon's battling walls,\n  A glowing fire of this home\n  Of deadly dews and poisoned night,\n  Bathes monstrous this untower'd shoal.\n  Convulsed with fear as aisles and halls\n  Roar like giant cauldrons mad for gore,\n  Icarian gumps and devils bold,\n  Assault each marshall\u00e9d mount and scree.\n  Then spectacles greet us again\n  Upon this shadowed, foreign shore:\n  A pond'rous dwang of virgin gold,\n  Is filched from altars that we see,\n  Just as the tomb-sweats pour like rain.\n  And distant ghauts where jazels burn,--\n  (A burning tomb where hissing oils\n  Drip on a flayed and bottled wench\n  That some abhorrent spawn of death\n  Filched from the wrack of Terror's urn\n  As stagnent breath unwinds its coils)\n  Spout uncoped shard unto a bench\n  Where sights of men-wrecks gasp for breath,\n  Whilst quickly from a bowelless whelp\n  Drop ghastly stones of scarlet hue\n  That brazen imps hurl thro' the air\n  At sobbing wraiths and furrowed souls,\n  Wrought by a fiend and conjured skelp\n  As men and women hold a pew\n  Within a turgid, acrid lair,--\n  Infernal aisles of yawning shoals!\n\n  T'ward cyphers bright and terrible,\n  Where Doom sits poised as Satan yawns,--\n  Each Vulture's home and arid shoal!\n  We hurl a curse and damn the hordes\n  That call each monster horrible.\n  Then craftily he moves his pawns\n  (Whenas a moan escapes each soul)\n  As bleary sons of noble lords\n  Sway twin censers' fumes in silence,\n  Until in myrtle groves we see\n  A blazing arch where agate eyes\n  Doth peer malignly from a crypt\n  Thro' turbid phials of violence,--\n  A scene of impish sorcery!\n  Where, in furbished chambers there lies--\n  As vypers write on evil script\n  The ghastly deeds that sinners wrought--\n  A glow-worm's fagot that arrays\n  Dim shapes of souls of men that were.\n  And cyphers nights of doomes to be,\n  Till flaring pyres and yon red ghaut--\n  So monstrous bright that some one prays--\n  And Vizy's carvel starts to stir,\n  Shape abhorrent signs on each lee.\n\n  Into the dusky coals we peer,\n  And musing at the luring flames,\n  We watch each isle of crystal green.\n  Anear the billows swirl with rage,\n  'Mid lashing waves that cope king Fear\n  To strands and sands where elfin games\n  Make rich each midnight's fleecy dream\n  That some Mad wand'ring, goblin sage,\n  Provoked from coffers of each brain,\n  Gleam in each tossing breast of foam,\n  Or shines from purple decks and domes\n  A ruddy carcant huge and large;\n  Or, when sea-linkt clouds, garbed in rain,\n  And behemoths sink to briny home,\n  A star that shines from foreign zones\n  Guide carvels old and Satan's barge\n  O'er blue profounds of the deep,\n  And gladden souls of men; yet, stunned,\n  Tho' trembling, to a roaring mouth,\n  A horn'd magician locked in death,\n  On whom two hectic harlots peep,\n  Sinks in abyssal depths unsummed,\n  Whilst him he fought hastes to the South,--\n  A hoary fiend of rasping breath!\n\n  And now we watch a maiden flee,\n  Past seas and ice-mounts oriflammed\n  With crystal diamonds red and bright,\n  Where Persephon\u00ea hath breathed a jem,\n  And frozen jazels that we see,\n  Alife with lusts of curst and damn'd,\n  Tho' windblown, thro' the moonless night,\n  She wanders with her anadem\n  On golden hair; nor doth she haste\n  When scarlet eyes peer thro' the snow,\n  But cavern\u00e9d mouths of grottoes black,\n  And storm-swept flight of dragons bold,\n  She passes as she treads the waste,\n  Off to the haunts of ghoullish show,\n  Where fires writhe and whispers track\n  Her wake unto the peaks of cold,\n  Above whose tower'd dome she sees\n  The tombs of father, mother, all;\n  Ay, now weeps she as the head-stones\n  Letter large, her unburied kin.\n  Now with her trembling arms and knees,\n  And back against the slimmy wall,\n  She vents her tears and choking moans,\n  A daughter cursed within this Inn.\n  And witches long for ease, so,\n  Erelong they peer at waters green\n  That pour in forges dank and cold,\n  Whence glare the eyes of Hell in lust\n  As Cyclops stem the pyre's glow,\n  'Mid haunts of sin and purple sheen\n  Of shales and husks of monsters told\n  As vultures to both scale and dust.\n  Then wing they for the western strands\n  Of bower\u00e9d vales and lulling dells,\n  Where silence holds the winds at bay,\n  And myrtles stir the sylvan air.\n  There tow'rs and the russet sands\n  Make fine the tunes of ringing bells\n  That echo to the skies of gray,\n  Where phosphorescent lanterns flare.\n  And twilights of the lofty aisles,\n  Thro' silver mists and streaks of blood,\n  Crucifixion looms cold and white;\n  Oaths of prurient blasphemy\n  Echo to the sequester\u00e9d isles;\n  An ivory pyx that rides the flood\n  On which fantasms spin their light,\n  Curse each soul's eternal enemy.\n  Within a pool where writhing coils\n  Shape cyphers bold and gorey thought,--\n  Two shadowed sklayres of Doom and Set!\n  The foam-dreams of the newly dead\n  Ascend. To hazards that the oils\n  Eschewed, haste dryades that were taught\n  To dance. And, whilst all souls forget\n  The chasms deep and oriflammed,\n  The spastic lights of a green room,\n  Dim torches show the jeweled tombs\n  Wherein are hid the studded crowns\n  Of Eastern queens; or, when high-bred\n  Dames pick from Death's unbroken womb\n  The coral wreaths and poppy blooms,\n  Two priestesses in scarlet gowns\n  Curse loudly as the royal dead\n  Are strewn with palmy leaves and dyes.\n  And crimsons adders on the hulls,\n  Search for toadstools smeared with blood.\n  And livid lamps where vypers spoon,\n  As some bad harlot shrieks and cries\n  Her Nature's sins unto three skulls,\n  A shameless gnome bathes in hell's flood\n  The thighs he filched from a gray tomb.\n\n  Drawn by the whispers from the wind,\n  'Mid glories of the hollowed night,\n  To storm-swept vales and mounts we haste,\n  And, in monastic halls we see,\n  Above a greenish gyrus rind,\n  The flick'ring flames of a light,\n  Beneath whose subtle, shadowed waste\n  Squat men and women that would flee\n  The ghastly words from Vellum told,\n  Who pluck their eyes and pull their hair,--\n  Beneath their feet there writhes a worm!\n  As bludgeons smite a leering soul.\n  And when a wench that Satan sold\n  To some old seer, whose head is bare,\n  And oily snakes in cauldrons squirm,\n  All blast the sight and curse this shoal,--\n  Infernal land of Sin and Doom!\n  Eternal moans and sighs we hear;\n  A swarthy demon laughs with glee.\n  Then, thickly from a ghastly hole\n  The turbid dyes of blood doth bloom\n  From minxes bold, crouched with giant fear,\n  Provoke a sage who could not see,\n  With feelings for her impeached soul.\n\n  Low arches of a charnel house,\n  Above whose dome two demons sit,\n  That guard the lamps of fateful red,\n  Veiled whispers from a maiden's soul\n  Cleave skyward until they arrouse\n  A savage hound of hell with script\n  That holds her body's deeds. A-bed,\n  He peers thro' shades unto her shoal,\n  Then at his tome where sins are wrote\n  Of wifes that sold their names in lust,\n  Or men that worshipped naught but gold.\n  And, when stillness holds troubled sway,\n  A baneful imp that Conscience smote,\n  Rasps names of those bowed in the dust:\n  And, when thus their sins are foretold,\n  As kinsmen strike their beasts and pray,\n  A livid gasp permeates the air,\n  A curdling curse assails the night.\n  And squats, whose scarlet venom crawls\n  To lantern's-glow that tell the guilt\n  Of battling demons as they swear,\n  Malignly dumb below each light\n  That scyle the bloody walls and halls,\n  The life-ebb from a wench is spilt.\n  The phosphorescent fungus-lights\n  Are traitors' lamps that sorrows hide;\n  The foam-sprayed beaches that we see,\n  Are treasure-houses for the damn'd.\n  From year to year infernal nights\n  Rasp shoals a thousand furlongs wide;\n  In ev'ry zone, each distant lee,\n  Holds ghastly sights of burning sand.\n  The headlands that we reach by day,\n  About whose shore the dragons roam;\n  And mildewed vaults of gather\u00e9d bone,\n  Where eyeless skulls and ape-shanks lie\n  As moaning winds reel to and sway\n  From gorey pools and tower'd dome,\n  A goggling wraith and shambling gnome\n  Doth forage for each fleeing sigh.\n\n  Now Sorrow that the Dooms crown'd King,\n  Flees from the mouth of pools inflame,\n  Whilst Lords in robes of scarlet hue,\n  Add to the damn'd, malignant show;\n  Pellicles that all eyes did sting\n  In Vengeance's law that none could tame,\n  Flees whence two lights of dreaming blue\n  Cleave dome-thrown shadows dress'd in woe.\n\n  A Thaumaturgist, cursed and damn'd,\n  Raps skulls from which a venom pours,\n  And shakes his fists where opals burn,\n  Whence figgum that his hands control\n  Is charged with life; and on the sand\n  Two witches sate their thirst in gores,\n  Flit Fancy's wings unto a urn,\n  (Within whose tomb there writhes a soul)\n  And with Courage that Dawn hath bred\n  In rivers, to whispers of the night,\n  As wracks are dyed a crimson red,\n  Feasts upon Doom's abhorrent shape,\n  That fires bright, toss to each bed,\n  And flees to realms where shadows light;\n  Whilst Thought, in horror of the dead,\n  Wings in mourning veils, dark as crepe,\n  And feasts on afterglow of Trust,\n  On cauldrons tossed to crafty Death\n  That froths dank pomp and guidons bright,\n  Unto a height, where falt'ring eyes,\n  Betrayed by crystals numb in dust,\n  Gasps at the sight with startled breath\n  As vapours green, war with the light,\n  Faint as the sunset's golden dyes.\n  All mounts of bone are tombs of weal,\n  Each scree, a temple of king Doom;\n  And runnels that the suns do shun,\n  Are pools where offal reeks most strong\n  And thro' the air giant wasps do reel;\n  On barriers bleak, reptiles soom;\n  A Vulture that no shard can stun\n  Gawks at the multitudes gone wrong.\n\n  Where waters with the venom crawls\n  To oriels, where banners float\n  Beside a dome-thrown surf of blood\n  T'ward letters large, that Hell hath wrought,\n  Worm-like vapours skirr thro' the halls\n  And reach a distant, lurid moat,\n  Where sighs and groans upon a flood\n  Ascend to heights of a grey ghaut--\n  Satellites to Destiny's crypt!\n  And Vespers that the Twilight brought--\n  More dooms that prayers nor sighs can break--\n  Leer at each thought to Fancy's flight;\n  And to the dais whereunder sit\n  A demon-quire that Circe taught,\n  Songs that echo to the isles in lake\n  And valley deep, ravage the night\n  Until Idols pall at the scene.\n  And stationed Mounts toward the West\n  Whose bones portray a ghastly lust;\n  And skulls that glare at the soulless night,\n  Point, weeping, where the foam-waves dream:\n  All battle-wrecks and imps haste forth\n  Unto the phosphorescent dust\n  And pyramidal shoals of light.\n\n  The poisons that the geysers spit\n  To apes, where Sin in splendor reigns;\n  And cavern'd shapes that shadows hide\n  Behind tapers, where snarling Doom\n  Glares at Set's tomb, where devils sit,\n  Make vague signs to the weird flames,\n  Flit spastic breath to regions wide\n  And shrood each shrunken soul with gloom.\n  Where glozing parasites hold sway,\n  Seck rivers dry reveal the bones\n  Of ages that the Cyclops slew:\n  Onyx thrones that the Titans storm'd\n  Lie in obfuscating decay;\n  Eyeless skulls that abhorrent gnomes\n  Wield in hands that reek with the dew\n  That solemn Death in tombs hath worm'd,\n  Stare at the scene as willows sigh:\n  And tapers of the Mount's crown'd witch\n  (Whenas each carcant fades from view)\n  Seek shadows that the tombs have cast\n  Upon the conjured, wind blown sky,\n  Where Syrian altar-lamps make rich\n  The palace-domes whereon the dew\n  Sits like a star and beams upon the vast,\n  Phantasmagoric glory of Death,\n  Of godly helms housed in a crypt.\n  And where a livid beacon flares--\n  (A rock that some giant storm hath split)\n  In mourning robes and rasping breath,\n  Before a grave where devils sit,\n  A Queen at whom a lizard stares,\n  Sobs her grief and woe that tears writ\n  Deep into the phorphyry mount:\n  This, then, is Death's home, vale and Tomb!\n  Where Lancers, made equal with the dust\n  When revolt storm'd each kingdom's fold,\n  And clashing wars spun Hecate round\n  The pungent halls of spastic Doom;\n  When in each Nation fought king Lust\n  As siffling vapours gleamed like gold,\n  Ten legions whom the gods forsook\n  Wrought havoc on this Cauldron's shore:\n  Then Dragon-guidons led the march\n  As battle-axes smote vile Lords;\n  Stout hears that with king Vengeance shook,\n  Fought with valour's shield for more gore;\n  Assaults that rasped each Temple's arch,\n  Spake conquest o'er shambling hordes.\n\n  This tale on ghastly Vellum's writ,\n  More sypher'd woes the walls proclaim;\n  Where goblins fondle crumbling bones,\n  There lies a death-thrown monster cold.\n  Perturb\u00e9d at writings on yon script\n  As moaning airs gaunt Sorrows name,\n  Each ape attests in faffling tones--\n  Flight to the Dragons' haunted fold.\n  Affrighted at this fearful gaze\n  As coals blaze like twinkling jewels,\n  Night-hawks that croak at bat-faced owls\n  Gledge at each gnome that digged a bone\n  From some bleak pool, and pierce the haze\n  Where censers blaze. Unconquer\u00e9d ghouls\n  Who laugh and leer at demon howls,\n  Make signs unto the hell-lashed foam--\n  Japes that the damn'd fear in each knell!\n\n  Where jargling javels stab a toad,\n  And mutter swift, as vypers swear;\n  And spectres that the cauldrons wrought,\n  Glare at the storm-swept sins that tell\n  Of monsters that the night-winds rode\n  When bloody plumes stole to a lair\n  Beyond the confines of a ghaut.\n  And spacious halls where vagrants lie--\n  Vandals to the Dawn, Night and Dusk!\n  And vulpine labyrinths of hell\n  Where pirates of a star are thron'd\n  As dews cloak bones that pierce the sky,\n  Wowed witches with a gorce's lust\n  When vales list to a clanging bell\n  That some encharnel'd hybrid domed,\n  Sweats cesspools with the pall of fear,\n  Shrill sounds permeate the barren air,\n  Each shatter'd light before a well,\n  Ends its flame in short, spastic gasps.\n  And stars that burn but once a year,\n  (Vein\u00e9d Aureoles to altars where,\n  When sins are told unto each knell\n  As chanting runes are hushed with clasps\n  Of winds provoked by black-set night,\n  Peer at the caravans in prayer;\n  A dirge is sung by magicians;\n  Each Idol squints eyes at the show,\n  Whilst goblins curse the eerie sight.\n  And Betelguese, an evil lair\n  With infernal, warring legions,\n  Careens as stars shed tears of woe.\n\n  Arcadia, its pleasing name,\n  An Eden where the damn'd drink wine,\n  Where rich f\u00eates greet each varlet's eye,\n  Each gyving hound whom Fates have doomed:\n  Each scyphus veils a burning flame;\n  A blood-stone from each dome doth shine\n  On poisons that in goblets lie,\n  Bred by sorcerers, cursed and tombed.\n  Then Terrors, Horrors, reign supreme!\n  Each vial squat before the spread,\n  Leer at toads in goblets crossed,\n  Froth skinks within each feaster's glass,\n  Wine changed to blood, then acrid green.\n  A drunken villain who was bled\n  As drink his convulsed entrails tossed,\n  Writhes with the cramps upon the grass\n  And glares at the face of his god,\n  Whose wrinkled skin, in ghastly wrath,\n  Provoked at this son in revolt,\n  Rants his spleen to the slabs of Doom,\n  From whence gyte monsters with a rod,\n  That oft gave imps a bloody bath,\n  Hythe, and before their master halt;\n  And, then came unhung, battling gloom!\n  The dome cracked like a clashing star,\n  All lights were muffled in a shroud,\n  Wild winds that cought us in their fold,\n  Dashed wrecks unto a reeking zone.\n  In Thralldom's grasp we waged giant war,\n  The storms rasped at each cursing crowd,\n  From regions far there sprung a cold\n  That froze each hoodlum stuck in loam.\n  There, garbed in the wastes of a moat,\n  Gangrel witches scan the slime to curse\n  Beneath a dome and shatter'd light,\n  A sign that all are lost and doomed.\n  Toward jagged heights black oaths float,\n  To skies of jasper light, adverse\n  To Doom's rich fold, prayers reach thro' night\n  That some malignant monster tombed\n  In phantom-blankets stark and bold.\n  All mountain-chasms growl and roar;\n  Each ocean froths black waves of lust;\n  King Thunder rasps the trembling night;\n  Giant lightnings split their fevered hold;\n  Encharneled guilt hastes to this shore\n  As hydras squirm along the dust,\n  Affrighted at this Cauldron's sight.\n\n  For we are unsubstantial wrecks\n  Beyond the pale of scale and fin;\n  Adventurers tossed by king Time\n  In region 'neath supernal skies.\n  To dungeoned knells where venom specks\n  The robes of priestesses with sin,\n  And prowling apes get drunk with wine,\n  We turn each thought to coral eyes\n  That seas have blurred with coffined night,\n  And whisper deeds wrought in silence.\n  A quiver that the tomb-sweat bore\n  When walls were split with Typhon's ire;\n  And monstrous shapes that carved the light\n  As dragon-worms brought pestilence\n  To souls who grovel on this shore,\n  Proclaim each gyving djinnee sire.\n  And dryades whom the mists have struck\n  With ague--A Sceptre of Despair!\n  (Sklayres to the night, and suns unstunned)\n  Dank dulse, where templed vaults of man,\n  Coarse-grained, who gambled with king Luck,\n  'Mid pulse of life below the air,\n  Shake at the throb of this unsummed\n  Sphere, where haunted thoughts and dreams scan\n  Athward at a untower'd home,\n  Where vitals that the glow-worm lit--\n  Friends to the Doom! as sorrowed soul,\n  Repress'd with rage, knelt down and prayed,\n  Rise from the hollowed void a moan\n  As sins upon papyrus, writ\n  In vyper's blood--Jems in this shoal!\n  Confess'd by men whom friends have flayed,\n  Teem in the wind-swept, shatter'd strands--\n  Blind batter'd keels that know no rest\n  'Mid surge of moans that tombs have spilt.\n  Upon the air that Doom hath wrung,\n  Beyond the fields where numberless hands\n  Point to the headland of the West,\n  Lights and vague shadows spell no guilt\n  Unto the wraiths whom Torpor stung.\n  And all night-thoughts in this strange sphere,\n  Tred in the skirts of waters cold,\n  Of hell-winds that the beaches swirl\n  Dome-high within this shrunken realm;\n  And crested billows toss giant Fear\n  Unto each culprit's hidden fold:\n  The studded roof where flares a pearl,\n  The charnel vapours o'erwhelm.\n\n  In caverns where gyte jinnee lee--\n  Noctivagous lepers in the gloom--\n  Unhollowed regions wrapped in light\n  Where groans are drowned by revels coarse,\n  (Seen by a gump throughout the year\n  Above the strife where horrors soom)\n  Lurk crafty gnomes who with the night\n  Rant oaths in voices cracked and hoarse:\n  Blood-thirsty jinn in essling caves,\n  Where rubic dyes tinge Torture's dome,\n  And vypers' whispers pierce the night\n  As ghouls--whose baneful eyes conspire\n  With the surge of hell's roaring waves--\n  Rear mounts of bone--Dame Sorrow's home!\n  As charnel scarn parades in light--\n  Unfathomed crafts rayed in wowed attire.\n  And dusky mists peer at the show,\n  Obtest the gloom to further deeds\n  Of haste, to Horror's added might;\n  Tho' twilight-witches spill their gloom,\n  (Betelguese's priestesses of woe)\n  Abhorrent gawks lure in the reeds\n  Where shatter'd lights wing sudden flight,\n  'Mid spun-waves kiss'd by poppy bloom.\n\n  Dank dulse, and rushing waters cold;\n  Eternal signs of shadowed night\n  Beyond the zephyr-haunted space\n  Of adequate lees 'neath the sky:\n  Unfathomed haunts of stark souls bold\n  That squat on waves of darkest dight,\n  Malignly mute as foam-waves race\n  To pyres where men in torture lie.\n  When thrones are levelled to the dust,\n  And glories fade in cauldrons tossed,\n  'Mid waters vaster than the night\n  In scarlet tombs that rasp grim Death,\n  Supernal selves, loosed from king Lust\n  As Dissolution bulwarks crossed,\n  Conviction of an undreamt might\n  Assail each mongrel afrite's breath.\n  Hushed gasps permeate the solemn air\n  As coral Twilight flaunts its sheen,\n  And vapours wreath phantastic forms\n  Till vaulted domes glow like the noon.\n  Vague dreams plague souls beyond repair,\n  Phantoms, black demons call their queen,\n  Skinks and owls whom no conscience storms\n  Make faces at the leprous moon.\n  And bleak dungeons dank with odours\n  Strong, within each encrusted gyre,\n  'Mid treasure-vaults digged by gray Age,\n  Affronting witches incense burn;\n  And howling ghouls gape thro' vapours,\n  Two siffling vampyres dance on fire,\n  Each mottled sage a conquer\u00e9d page\n  To him whose hate no Doom can turn,\n  No bat-faced gnome can stem the blaze:\n  Hence harlots, ghastly with giant sin,\n  Chant runes to him in strobic gloom\n  As figgum's plied before his throne.\n  Malignly mute, he peers thro' haze;\n  Infernal p\u00e6ons shake each Inn,\n  Blue lights 'twixt opals burn and bloom\n  In deep-hued haunts of Typhon's home.\n\n  In vain we seek an isle of peace\n  Beyond the pale of siffling Doom!\n  'Mid stillness vaster than the tomb,\n  Made equal with the ghouls who lurk\n  On battlements where witches ease\n  Their minds as rubic censers fume,\n  A Fiend bubbles in ruddy bloom\n  As turgid dyes the night-dwales shirk.\n  No sunsets crimson this stain\u00e9d sea,\n  No Ev'ntides her plume unfolds;\n  An opaque light that Silence wrought.\n  Careens thro' space in quest of toll.\n  Then demons storm each sea and lee,\n  Abhorrent sights each Cauldron holds,\n  Dim shapes flit to the distant ghaut\n  Where Doom sits poised--Each monster's goal!\n  Erelong the air shakes with a roar--\n  Forebodings of souls on Death's dome!\n  Bright cyphers spell the new-damn\u00e9d name\n  In letters 'gainst a leprous home:\n  Oaths peel like the hammer of Thor--\n  The screaming thing is flayed to bone!\n  Its sins--an outraged Body's shame--\n  Laid bare as whipcords dye the foam,\n  Whereon nepheloid imps and night,\n  Soom on with tidings of a moan,\n  Of dews, and whisper'd groans and sighs.\n  And, as vague forms writhe in despair,\n  A native in phantastic dight\n  Stills Torture's hold in weazened tone,\n  Black incense lifts its wand and flies\n  To haunts where mattoids rave and swear.\n\n  Where figent gawks sken at a gnome,\n  Decked in byssin and beads of gold;\n  And glozing jinn on a scree's height,\n  That leer as geysers boil and flow,\n  Feazing imps on serai's dome,\n  Drink from olpes icy philters cold,\n  Whilst scarn assails the morning light--\n  And gumps haste to the Dawn's first show.\n  Then pyres don mystic sklayres agleam,\n  A faffling fool leads gawks thro' hall\n  Where fays, in stones of ancient art,\n  Dance as Scorpions shake with glee:\n  Infernal pomps spread tawny sheen,\n  Strange figgum, amid unholy pall,\n  Pierce Sorrows with its poisoned dart\n  Whence horrors shake their limbs and flee.\n  And scenes, profound in Aspect's hue,\n  Play havoc with eyes of each soul:\n  Crimson dales (vague tho' they be)\n  And swards rise from the lurid moat;\n  Knees bend in Adoration's pew,\n  Blithe songs of cheer, far and near, roll\n  Thro' the halls to ebony sea,\n  Above whose breast twin whispers float--\n  Tremendous signs of dooms to be!\n  And, ere falt'ring noon wings itself\n  To shadow peaks and portals bright\n  That scyle veiled augueries of Hell,\n  An agate light arrays this sea,\n  Each glabrous fay sports with an elf,\n  A one-eyed owl blinks at the light,\n  A green-horned toad croaks from a well.\n  Then pageantries fade in the gloom:\n  'Mid Cyclopean storms unstunned\n  Dank treasure-houses spill their quest\n  And march with thunder from far West;\n  Whilst lightning flashes skirr the noon,\n  Giant moans ascend from shoals unsunned,\n  The turf, Tartarus' coals of rest--\n  Helots to the haunts of Sin's crest--\n  Whereon jimp jinn ride to hell's mouth,\n  The silence stir with oaths of might;\n  Vile dragons roar at a zimb's sting;\n  A swarthy gump leers at the damn'd:\n  All soom to mountains of the South\n  Where sultry winds war with the light,\n  And zanies' voices rise to sing,\n  Hosannah to the idol's stand,\n  Where azure-censers' fumes enhance\n  The pomps, adverse to Sorrow's home.\n  Figent hydras squat on each throne,\n  Mute souls peer at the altar's flame\n  As phantom images do dance\n  In honour of this Hybrid's zone,\n  Bred in this gorce by some strange gnome,\n  Sib to him who plays Satan's game.\n\n  A Cesspool vext with leprous stench\n  And oils--A sign that spells a curse!\n  Visioned with Temples' diamonds bright\n  In domes as guide to those whose cry\n  Of fear, sprung from a wench's bench,\n  Lure all to this strange shore, adverse\n  To moonlit skies. By the ghaut's light,\n  (Ten-thousand furlongs wide and high)\n  The gaud, spun from sorcerers' art,\n  Reveals its part unto each soul--\n  Imperishable signs of groans\n  That time nor cyclones can eschew.\n  No lulling lanes point to a mart,\n  No tidings good their billows roll;\n  In fretful haunts where Sorrow moans,\n  Swarm souls in Penance's rasping pew:\n  Disastrous sights of Torture's dome!\n  Red-embered coals that burn their feet!\n  And reeking pools, vile with odours,\n  Make monstrous this blood-crimson vale.\n  Where demon-lovers chew a bone\n  As men and women choak in heat,\n  And blood-vein\u00e9d sights writhe in vapours--\n  Eternal shadows in each gale!\n\n  To groves where stiliness sat supreme,\n  Flee seers in quest of lagging rest;\n  To regions where giant echos roar,\n  Haste begotten sons in this lair:\n  There man-born wrecks lie down and dream\n  Of sea-winds that foam-billows bless'd,\n  Of auric realms where censers pour\n  Violaceous fumes thro' the air.\n  And in the deep-hued depths of gore,\n  (Blind bowels in Betelguese's hold)\n  Gyte vandals that a Dragon bore\n  Sleep with one eye as Midnight rules\n  These sons of Circe whom pyres adore;\n  Their thoughts vie with the luring fold,\n  Each sleepless orb glares like a boar--\n  Infernal hounds of shambling ghouls!\n  Porphyry mounts where crystals glare--\n  Twin carcants strung on idols' thighs\n  Whereon stones, blaze like fire bright,\n  And moonstones add their silver sheen,\n  A Circean draught, boiled in the air,\n  Is poured on cippus where Set lies;\n  Where vanquished Soldans sleep each night,\n  A greenish fungus-torch doth gleam.\n  Giant battles have been fought in hell,\n  Principalities rot in dust,\n  The tombs of kings speak of the past\n  When Incubi reigned with a rod.\n  Unnumber\u00e9d bones adorn each dell--\n  Where Rulers lie there stands a bust;\n  Blood-stain\u00e9d the hands of him whose task\n  Is blasting varlets like a god.\n  And when some spirit stalks thro' space\n  In quest of vaults--Temporal lees!\n  Treads in the grandeur of dank hell,\n  A batter'd shape that shakes its frame,\n  Spacious regions Courage chase,\n  Winds drive it to Misery's seas,\n  Laughs ascend from sequester\u00e9d well,\n  Thro' shadows vague it hears its shame.\n  And tomb-thrown groans and sighs we hear--\n  Tho' midnight's near and afrite's sleep:\n  An Owl, perturb\u00e9d at some strange sound,\n  Scares bats in space and wings for domes.\n  All signs of woe hath flown with fear,\n  No maidens heave their breasts and weep,\n  All wrecks of Flesh lie on the ground,\n  Removed from shoals where Terror moans.\n  On skulls that some in Death hath left,\n  Croak toads to lizards in a well;\n  In cajons that the Ancient's digged,\n  Swim snakes that hiss at burning oils:\n  And bats and owls that offal cleft,\n  Proclaim their burdens to a dell,\n  Whilst crafts that some strange witch hath rigged,\n  Bring slaves unto this Cesspool's coils.\n\n  When carcants gleam like scarlet foam,\n  And hiss of pyres froth at each light\n  In dongas vext as jazels flare\n  From splinter'd tombs of Kings in dust,\n  A straggling mist that cleft Hell's dome,\n  Peers at the gloom and strobic sight\n  Of charnel shard as vypers blare\n  Wrathfully at each Monarch's bust.\n  And doleful dirges rake the gloom,\n  A whisper'd sin sobs at the wrecks;\n  Graven imps clasp papyrus old\n  And rant each Body's deeds of shame.\n  Come from a dank and sunken womb\n  All stranded ghouls on keels and decks\n  Where Cyclops fought as Vellum told\n  In cyphers bright, sprung from each flame,\n  Make hideous eyes at the night.\n  And terrors that Tartarus bred\n  Assail each kingdom treblefold:\n  A gangrel clan that someone flayed,\n  Skirr thro' the dungeoned halls in flight\n  And seek the caverns of the dead.\n  Where tapers gleam like virgin gold\n  The tombs of dead queens are arrayed:\n  There, too, a witch unfurls her cowl\n  And scans the shambling hordes to curse,\n  And with the light that cyclones split,\n  She juggles secrets of her lust,\n  And hurls her voice at N\u00e9phele's owl,\n  Past portals dark, where harlots nurse\n  Their skinless limbs that Torture bit,\n  And stamps her feet into the dust\n  As, into olpes she pours a tear:\n  And, musing at the clouds of gloom,\n  She wrinkles face and lifts her hands\n  To mutter words unto the night.\n  Whereon a ghoul-king hath writ Fear,\n  And changes gloom to purple bloom,\n  The shoals to opal-sanded strands\n  That reach, past wrecks to crystal light,\n  Where mossy vales with poppies bloom,\n  And hastes her flight from Terror's urn,\n  To onyx seas where agates glow,\n  And feats her eyes on woes of hell,\n  Upon the foam-dreams of king Doom,\n  Where monsters in red cauldrons burn,\n  'Mid shrieks that from their vitals flow\n  With airs that rasp each bone-strewn dell.\n  And sea-linkt skies of charnel black--\n  A savage dome! streaked scarlet red,\n  Where maids for demon lovers mourn;\n  And caskets spew a dusky foam\n  That quench the thirst of yon lone wrack\n  That holds the sultry, naked dead,\n  Who caught the eyes of waves forlorn,\n  Now bathed in blood in Hecate's home.\n\n  There garnet wrought and purple lights\n  Shine thro' poisoned vials of age\n  On churning pomps of casements old,\n  Where, when lofty aisles and halls\n  Ring rich with tenor runes in nights\n  Made solemn by a hoary sage\n  With darkling eyes that gleam like gold,\n  A prowling vandal storms the walls,\n  Nursed with dank venom broths and oils.\n  A blood-shot minx hunts for a man;\n  In stys and broken pyxs she peers\n  For him who ruined her honour, soul;\n  A harlot doomed in clinging coils\n  That now her longings curse and damn,\n  Squats on a skull and pulls her ears:\n  Or, just when she finds her life-goal,--\n  A cow'ring cur hid from the sight\n  Beneath a putrid mount of bone,\n  And tombs grow dank as rising sun\n  Makes red each dragon in the West,\n  She splits his heart and rasps with might,\n  A curse that rides the surging foam,\n  A message that this dastard son\n  Dies longing for a fatal quest--\n  Surcease of soul and conscience lost!\n  Then rants she sins unto each tomb\n  That sweat the lusts of those in dust,\n  And scarlet foam and hiss of oils\n  That her black deed to domes hath tossed,\n  Break into writhing life and bloom\n  As iron crowns and ceptres rust\n  Of fall'n monarchs crossed in coils.\n  Anear, two carcants glare like gold;\n  Afar, a ruby's light of red\n  Straggles thro' the pellicl\u00e9d mist,\n  And to its vinewed dell haste I,\n  To catch the fleeting whispers told\n  To marble-lamps and head-stones, said,\n  By demon-husbands as I list,\n  To hold each mongrel harlot's sigh.\n  There, then, in tatter'd rags and hair,\n  Coarse-grained of features once so fine,\n  She spews her 'evil wrath and rage\n  Into the wriggling hands and face\n  Of him who lifts his voice to swear\n  A curse that stirs the air, whose time\n  (Tho' to king Satan speeds a page)\n  Hath come as Vengeance wins the race.\n  When crimson skies and stellor eyes\n  Swathed palace domes and turrets strong,\n  Her lips kiss'd mine, and mine did hers,\n  Ere evil smote her virgin soul.\n  And livid lights of bleeding dyes\n  (Whenas she prods him with her prong)\n  Make terrible her words so terse\n  That brands this scoundrel on this shoal.\n  And mutt'ring quick a ghastly oath\n  As turgid mists veil shadows vague,\n  She plucks his lying tongue that stole\n  Her husband's love and honour old,\n  And smites him stark and cold, tho' loath,\n  It peers to me her demon-ague\n  That binds her to this perjured soul,\n  She drinks his gore from carvels cold\n  And leers with fiendish lips at him,\n  Now tossed in phosphorescent holes.\n  And as I list to aspen cries,\n  Veiled augueries in vapours hie\n  And spell these tokens to each Inn:\n  Kingdoms, empires, nations, souls,\n  Shall miss the haunts of Paradise,\n  And in Subjection, crumbling, lie.\n  And when the regions, wrapped in light\n  By pillared dreams and pomps supreme\n  As curses stir the charnel air\n  That hide dank caverns deep and bold,\n  A battling monster smites the night\n  As lepers wink their orbs and dream\n  Of maidens that the men forswear,\n  Of templed vaults now stiff in cold.\n  And when a dim, unholy tomb,\n  Wreathes odours damp and vapours strong--\n  Heirs of the Doomed! as savage domes\n  Drip palsied sweat and carnal howls\n  Assail the stationed halls of gloom,\n  Where imps and devils march along\n  Beside a monarch's crumbling bones\n  As witches don their filthy cowls\n  And rant their sins thro' whistling halls,\n  Shake women fists at fleeing souls\n  And wail for b\u00e2tard children dead;\n  Whilst quickly from the burning dust\n  Ascends an oath that storms the walls\n  And rasps the distant mounts and shoals\n  Until each pyre glows scarlet red,\n  Each idol leers with wicked lust.\n  Forth from rubies flare scented fumes\n  As beacons glare and bubbles hiss\n  To crimson strands and altars' glow\n  Of burning oils in carvels deep,\n  Where; when Torture's bloody dome looms\n  Cold as shambling shapes of men kiss\n  Trembling women before the show,\n  Wraiths point to where their daughters weep.\n\n  To lie in vaults and chambers cold\n  'Mid tombs that ghouls in hatred wrought!\n  To sleep in dank Subjection's shard\n  'Mid hanuts of purple sins and shales\n  A Thirst gyre! as bleak, untold,\n  As ever haunted woman sought\n  For incubi on scented sward\n  As bleary owls and vulpine wails\n  Rake stationed nights and seas forlorn,\n  Until, when star-linkt domes are red,\n  And Oceans' shells and sands grow white,\n  Dusky isles and lights--Twins of the Gloom!\n  Betray each soul cursed and forsworn;\n  Or awed, at Twilights' scarlet bed,\n  When nightshades blot the conjured light\n  As javels vomit death and doom,\n  Dank vapours veil the seaward flight\n  Of Satellites gray 'gainst the night.\n  Till, eyes in fear peer at profounds\n  Unfathomed and, in vales unsunned,\n  See Cyclops battling in the light,\n  'Mid scarlet foam and gorey sight\n  Of bloody domes and hybrid hounds\n  Of Titan's forges, cold, unstunned.\n  Oh, vain each sinner's prayer of hope!\n  Alas, alas, all thoughts of future trust!\n  The bloody lanes of reigning Doom\n  Are lasting tombs for souls accurst.\n  When in a pool we lie and mope\n  As vaulted temples rot in dust,\n  Vague shapes and forms ascend to spell\n  Infernal chasms of black gloom.\n  When crested waves of billowed sea\n  Are lashed by winds from foreign shoal,\n  And foam-set breasts are dashed on high\n  As silence holds the voiceless air,\n  Unsavoury dreams haunt each lee--\n  The maw of Hell receives a soul!\n  A leering fiend blinks at the sky.\n\n  Beyond the realm of rulling Care,\n  Caressed by suns and moons most fair,\n  We fain would hye, all wrecks, and lie\n  In dusky forests dells and vales;\n  Beyond the Asian skies of blue,\n  Where sports an elf, mayhap a hare,\n  We fain would haste, each soul, and die,\n  Unfurl all dreams and pinioned sails,\n  And sleep unmourned in haunts we knew,\n  Now wracks and domes stare at each soul,\n  Giant goddards leak a rubic foam;\n  Blind forges hold Contagion's breath;\n  A Morgan longs for earthly home.\n  'Tis so with hell's eternal shoal\n  Where skinks eat flesh from wenches' bone;\n  'Tis thus with us purloined by Death,\n  Infernal doom that spells a moan.\n  Ten thousand years was Doom crown'd King;\n  Sporadic prayers each gnarl'd one lisped;\n  Despotic sway all subjects curs'd\n  When Hell was new and Earth unborn:\n  Now souls of man in torture sing,\n  Each Idol's glyph by damn'd one's kiss'd.\n  Who then shall say who is the worst,\n  A vyper's brood or man forsworn?\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's Notes:\n\nSpelling has not been altered from the original.\n\nThe misprint \"mournfnl\" on page 31 has been corrected to \"mournful.\"\n\nThe unmatched parenthesis on page 76 is presented as in the original.","title":"Betelguese : $b A trip through hell","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":12585}