Page:Betelguese, a trip through hell.djvu/98

90 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,