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THE GHOUL AND THE SERAPH
Detestable and evil as might hauntThe last delirium of a dying hag,Or necromancer's madness, fall thy locks,Like sodden reeds that trail in AcheronFrom shores of night and horror! And thy hands,Like roots of cypresses uptorn in stormThat still retain their grisly provender,Make the glad wine and manna of the skiesTurn to a qualmish sickness in my veins!
THE GHOULAnd who art thou?—Some white-faced fool of God,With wings that emulate the giddy bird,And bloodless mouth forever filled with psalms.In lieu of honest victuals!***Askest thouMy name? I am the Ghoul Necromalor:In new-made graves I delve for sustenance,As Man within his turnip-fields: I takeFor table the uprooted slab, that bearsThe words, "In Pace;" black and curdled bloodOf cadavers is all my cupless wine—Slow-drunken, as the dainty vampire drinks.From pulses oped in never-ending sleep.
THE SERAPHO! foulness born as of the ninefold curseOf dragon-mouthed Apollyon, plumed with darts,And armed with horns of incandescent bronze!O, dark as Satan's nightmare, or the fruitOf Belial's rape on hell's black hippogriff!***What knowest THOU of Paradise, where growThe gardens of the manna-laden myrrh,And lotos never known to Ulysses,Whose fruit provides our long and sateless banquet?Where boundless fields, unfurrowed and unsown,Supply for God's own appanage their foisonOf amber-hearted grain, and sesameSweeter than nard the Persian air compounds
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