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 borne             Feeble 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 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.