By the spirits’ far-off wail,
That sweetly, o’er the burning flood,
Floats on the brimstone gale!
The Devil, who can be sad at times,
In spite of all his mummery,
And grave—though not so prosy quite
As drawn by his friend Montgomery—
The Devil to-day has a dreaming air,
And his eye is raised, and his throat is bare;
His musings are of many things,