Impreciation, An

Ismir! fare thee well for ever!
From they walls with joy I go,
Every tie I freely sever,
Flying from thy den of woe.

Thou my swelling heart hast riven,
Torn my every hope away;
May, for this, the arm of Heaven
Mark thee for its destined prey.

May the knell of ruin tolling,
Wake thee from thy feverish dream,
While the awful bolt is rolling,
And the hags of vengeance scream.

May the bird of desolation,
On its wings of ebon hue,
Shrieking death and devastation,
Rest and hover over you.

May the owl, at midnight screaming,
Lighting on yon lofty tower,
Tell each soul, in horror dreaming,
How the clouds of ruin lower.

May an awful bolt of thunder
From those clouds of blackness burst,
Rending all thy walls asunder,
Scatter them in formless dust.

When thy walls and turrets, riven
By that bolt, to earth are hurled,
Ruin's share, in fury driven,
Blot thy memory from the world.

May a foe, like Gaul's dark legions,
Or the swarthy fiends of Hell,
Issuing from the infernal regions,
Through thy streets at midnight yell.

May thy bell, its curfew ringing,
Sound as by a demon strook,
And each wretch, from slumber springing,
Start as if an earthquake shook.

Wrapped in gory sheets of lightning,
While cursed night-hags ring thy knell,
May the arm of vengeance bright'ning
O'er thee wave the sword of Hell.

May a sudden inundation
Rise in many a roaring wave,
And with hurried devastation
Whelm thy thousands in the grave.

When the flood, in fury swelling,
Heaves their corpses on the shore,
May fell hyæns, madly yelling,
Tear their limbs and drink their gore.

While starved hounds the moon are baying,
Foxes yell, and gaunt wolves howl,
May the nighted wanderer straying
Startle at the tiger's growl.

When the moon, in crimson gleaming,
Rises in the gloomy east,
Through thy vaults may spectres streaming
Seek in yawning graves their feast.

Through thy ruined mansions prowling,
Where foul spirits love to tread,
May lean wolves, and tigers growling,
Gnash their teeth and tear the dead.

Ismir! land of cursed deceivers,
Where the sons of darkness dwell,
Hope, the cherub's base bereavers,—
Hateful city! fare thee well.
Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.