Nor flap of flame-tongued banner, like the Oriflamme of old,
Its vanward cohorts heralding, in crimson, green, and gold.
The engines now are ranged a-row—hark, how they sob and pant!
How gallantly the water-jets curve soaringly aslant!
Up spins the stream—it meets the flame—it bursts in fleecy rain,
Like the last spout of the dying whale, when the lance is in his brain.
Ha, ha! from yon high window thrill'd the wild shriek of despair,
And gibbering phantoms seem to dance within the ruddy glare;
And as a valiant captain leads his boarders to the fray,
"Up, up, my sons!" our foreman shouts—"up firemen, and away!"