Till the wave spews them up to its surface again;
There howling and writhing, unable to die,
Each visage distorted and bloodshot each eye,
For mercy in vain the assassins still cry!
Ah, Mercy they’ve slain!—Hope for them has no room,
Hell’s no longer a myth,—’tis the parricide’s doom!
The Devil here chuckled with joy and delight,
And seemed to be charmed with this horrible sight:
“This,” said he, “is the place where I demagogues throw
When they come here and ask for their lodgings below,