Gods of the old mythology, arise in gloom and storm;
Adramalec, bow down thy head; Nergal, dark fiend, thy form; —
The giant sons of Anakim bowed lowest at thy shrine,
And thy temple rose in Argob, with its hallowed groves of vine;
And there was eastern incense burnt, and there were garments spread,
With the fine gold decked and broidered, and tinged with radiant red, —
With the radiant red of furnace-flames that through the shadow shone,
As the full moon, when on Sinai's top, her rising light is thrown.
Baal of Chaldaea, dread god of the sun,
Come from the towers of thy proud Babylon,
From the groves where the green palms of Media grow,
Where flowers of Assyria all fragrantly blow;
Where the waves of Euphrates glide deep as the sea
Washing the gnarled roots of Lebanon's tree.
Ashtaroth, curse of the Ammonites, rise
Decked with the beauty and light of the skies,
Let stars be thy crown and let mists round thee curl
Light as the gossamer, pure as the pearl.
Semele, soft vision, come glowing and brightly,
Come in a shell, like the Greek Aphrodite,
Come in the billowy rush of the foam,
From thy gold house in Elysium, roam
Where the bright purple blooms of glory
Picture forth thy goddess-story.
Come from thy blood-lit furnaces, most terrible and dread —
From thy most black and bloody flames, god Moloch, lift thy head,
Where the wild wail of infant lungs shrieks horribly alone,
And the fearful yelping of their tongues sounds like a demon's groan.
There, their heart-riven mothers haste with burdened arms raised up,
And offer in their agony to thee thy gory cup.
O Dagon! from thy threshold roll on thy fishy train
And fall upon thy face and hands and break thy neck again:
Enormous wretch, most beastly fiend, plague of the Philistine!
O'er the locked Ark I bid thee come with its Cherubim divine.
And Belial loathsome, where art thou? Dost hear my rampant voice?
I mean to be obeyed, man, when I make such a noise.
My harp is screeching, ringing out, with a wild fevered moan,
And my lyre, like a sparrow with a sore throat, has a most unearthly tone.
A bottle of brandy is in me, and my spirit is up on high,
And I'll make every man amongst ye pay the piper ere I die;
And as for thee, thou scoundrel, thou brimstone sulphurous Mammon,
Let's have no more of thee nor of thy villainous gammon.
I'll be with you with a salt-whip most horrible for aye,
And I'll lash you till your hair turns as black as mine is grey.
You shall dwell in the red range while I blow the coals full fast,
And I'll make you feel the fury of a rushing furnace-blast,
Leap down the sweating rocks and the murderous caves of the pit,
And stamp with your hooves and lash with your tails and fire and fury spit.
I'll be at you in a jiffy as fast as I can run,
But I'm riding now on the horns of the moon and the back of the burning sun,
The wind is rushing before me and the clouds in a handgallop go,
And they are getting it properly when they fly a stiver too slow,
For the weed-slimy lands of the earth send up such a stink to me
That I'm fain to go on in my mad career, and soon shall I be with ye.
I'm a noble fellow, flames I spew, I shall eat them up if I'm spared;
I'm going to the pit of sulphur blue, and my name is Thomas Aird.