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Up the mountain and over the moor —
Have well begun
To take up the fun,
And begin to feel that the deed they have done,
Instead of being a pleasant one,
For why? — in lieu
Of its former hue,
Livid, ghastly and horrid !
Against prophetic fears;
There are sounds in the air,
Not here or there, Irresistible voices everywhere, No bulwarks can ever rebut,
And to match the screams,
They see with their eyelids shut !
Are hovering round the hut !
Shapes ! that within the focus bright
Of the Forge, are like shadows and blots ;
Are seen in the darkest spots.
Owls that screech, and dogs that yell —
All the domestic tribes of Hell, Shrieking for flesh to tear and tatter,
Bones to shatter,
And limbs to scatter,
Those blue-looking men know well !
For all their sturdy limbs and thews,
Their unshorn locks, like Nazarene Jews,
And as females say,
In a similar way,
In and out, in and out,
For like a spell
The unearthly smell That fumes from the furnace, chimney and mouth, Draws them in — an infernal legion – From East, and West, and North, and South, Like carrion birds from every region,
Till not a yard square
Of the sickening air
For the scene to describe,
Of the awful tribe,
Begot in its worst delirium :
Of the genus Megatherium !
As a dirge for their late commander; But one of the bevy --- witch or wizard, Disguised as a monstrous flying lizard,
Springs on the grisly Salamander, Who stoutly fights, and struggles, and kicks, And tries the best of his wrestling tricks, —
No paltry strife,
But for life, dear life,
Till, far beyond a surgical case,
Down he tumbles as dead as bricks !
And for him above all,
Red-bearded and tall,
In a recent bloody affair
Three paces, or four,
And he gains the door ; But ere he accomplishes one, The sound of a blow comes, heavy and dull, And, clasping his fingers round his skull, However the deed was done,
That gave him that florid
Red gash on the forehead — With a roll of the eyeballs perfectly horrid,
There's a tremulous quiver,
The last death-shiver,
Halloo! Halloo !
They have done for two ! But a heavyish job remains to do!
For yonder, sledge and shovel in hand, Like elder Sons of Giant Despair,
A couple of Cyclops make a stand, And, fiercely bammering here and there, Keep at bay the Powers of Air —
But desperation is all in vain ! —
They faint — they choke,
For the sulphurous smoke Is poisoning heart, and lung, and brain ; They reel, they sink, they gasp, they smother ; One for a moment survives his brother, Then rolls a corpse across the other !
Hulloo! Hulloo !
And Hullabaloo !
The Eisen Hutte is standing still;
Whatever iron is melted therein,
As travellers know who have been to Berlin. — Is all as black as the Devil!