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.