And sound as sleeps that mansion, ye may mark in every chink
A gleam, as in the lava-cracks by the volcano's brink;
Through key-hole and through window-slit, a white and sullen glow—
And all above is rolling smoke, and all is dark below.
Hark! hear ye not that murmur, that hush and hollow roar,
As when to the south-wester bow the pines upon the shore;
And that low crackling intermix'd, like wither'd twig that breaks,
When in the midnight greenwood the startled squirrel wakes!
Lo, how the fire comes roaring on, like a host in war array!
Nor lacks it gallant music to cheer it on its way,