XXXIV.
Biscayan Nereids! fill your urns with tears;
With scent of gore the bloodhound’s on the trail.
Mourn, Uruméan Naiads, plunged in fears,
For shrieks portentous load the sighing gale
From virgins all dishevelled, lorn, and pale;
And stab and death-shot end what leers begin,
And strong men fall o’erpowered, and seniors frail
Are slaughtered with the babes of all their kin,
And vilest passions loosed—the Carnival of Sin!