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!