When hurled from heaven, 'tis thought, the fiends of pride

Caught Earth to brake their fall. The regions gave

And sank with all the hosts beneath the wave!

'Tis in those sunken regions which divide

The new world of the resolute and brave,

From the old world of king and abject slave,

Where Torries, counterfeiting Satan, hide.

Clinging, like lava, to a lifeless limb,

They think the phosphorescence of the bark

Is morning, which the long-belated lark

Is hastening to welcome with his hymn;

Else, they form poisons and breathe from the dark,

Miasma mist to make the sun-rise dim.