This page has been validated.
90
BETELGUESE
Imperishable signs of groans
That time nor cyclones can eschew.
No lulling lanes point to a mart,
No tidings good their billows roll;
In fretful haunts where Sorrow moans,
Swarm souls in Penance's rasping pew:
Disastrous sights of Torture's dome!
Red-embered coals that burn their feet
And reeking pools, vile with odours,
Make monstrous this blood-crimson vale.
Where demon-lovers chew a bone
As men and women choak in heat,
And blood-veinéd sights writhe in vapours—
Eternal shadows in each gale!
To groves where stiliness sat supreme,
Flee seers in quest of lagging rest:
To regions where giant echos roar,
Haste begotten sons in this lair:
There man-born wrecks lie down and dream
Of sea-winds that foam-billows bless'd,
