The Djinns

Anonymous translation from the French               TOWN, tower,               Shore, deep,               Where lower               Cliffs 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 ’t is 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 nearer burst         Like the toll of bell         Of a convent cursed;         Like the billowy roar         On a storm-lashed shore,—         Now hushed, now once more         Maddening to its worst.       O God! the deadly sound       Of the Djinns’ 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!     ’T is the Djinns’ wild streaming swarm     Whistling in their tempest-flight;     Snap the tall yews ’neath the storm,     Like a pine-flame crackling bright.     Swift and heavy, lo, their crowd     Through the heavens rushing loud,     Like a livid thunder-cloud     With its bolt of fiery night!   Ha! 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 ’t would fly! Wild cries of hell! voices that howl and shriek! The horrid swarm 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 foul and hellish things,   A pilgrim at thy shrine I ’ll bow,   Laden with pious offerings.   Bid their hot breath its fiery rain   Stream on my faithful 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 flight 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 pattering hail       On some old roof-tree near.         Fainter now are borne         Fitful mutterings still;         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 the wild flight.           Hark, the dull moan,           Like the deep tone           Of ocean’s groan,           Afar, by night!             More and more             Fades it now,             As on shore             Ripple’s 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.