His darker hints; but where's the element

That chequers not its usefulness to man

With casual terror? Scathes not earth sometimes

Her children with Tartarean fires, or shakes

Their shrieking cities, and, with one last clang

Or hells for their own ruin, strews them flat

As riddled ashes—silent as the grave.

Walks not Contagion on the Air itself?

I should—old Ocean's Saturnalian days

And roaring nights of revelry and sport