For now the sun was sinking fast below
The dark horizon of the western brow.
’Tis now indeed a melancholy hour;
For, as they line the brink, they hear the roar—
The thunder of great Vulcan’s mighty gong:
Besides, they hear, though faint, th’ Infernals’ song
Of joy; and there, as round the vault they stand,
Is heard the clamour of th’ uproarious band
Let loose below, to revel at their will,
Till Mulciber shall bid them to be still.