At what unwonted hour has Phœbus left his bed?
No, they are Russian crowds who struggle with the foe,
’Tis their accordant torch that flashes through the night.
Sequana, see the might
Of Stamboul sink below!
The harbour teems with life, an amphitheatre
Of sulphurous pitch and smoke, and awful noises there.
The fiends of hell are loose, the sea has oped its caves,
Fate rides upon the deep, and laughs amidst the fray,
Which feeds with human prey