As fell from all his shaken soul the veil. 
Then on the night began the awful gale 
That did assume a voice 
Whereat the air was peopled with such forms 
As ride abroad upon the path of storms, 
And in the awe rejoice. 
They gather, chanting, round that noble head. 
The master of the prisons of the dead 
Loosens the bonds and bids the furies spring 
For their last struggle ere they own a king. 
This pæan of the sky they sing. 
 
 
CHANT OF DEMONS. 
 
We ride upon the fury of the blast, 
Fast, fast. 
We race upon the horses of the wind, 
The tameless thunder follows hard behind, 
Fast, and too fast. 
The lightning heralds us,  the iron blast 
Lends us its splendour for a steed fire-shod, 
The steed of God ! 
 
68