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,
      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!”

      Their arms are strong and sinewy—­see how the splinters fly—­
      Their axes they are sharp and good—­“Back, comrades! or ye die—­
      Look to the walls!”—­a rending crash—­they topple—­down they come—­
      A cloud of sparks—­a feeble cheer—­again!—­and all is dumb.

      A pause—­as on that battle-day, ’twixt France and England’s might,
      When huge L’Orient blew up at once, in the hottest of the fight: 
      There was not one, they say, but wink’d, and held his breath
          the while,
      Though brave were they that fought that day with Nelson at the Nile.

      And by to-morrow’s sunrise, amid the steaming stones,
      A chain of gold half-melted, and a few small white bones,
      And a few rags of roasted flesh, alone shall show where died—­
      The noble and the beautiful, the baby and the bride!

      O fire, he is a noble thing!—­the sot’s pipe gives him birth;
      Or from the livid thunder-cloud he leaps alive on earth;
      Or in the western wilderness devouring silently;
      Or on the lava rocking in the womb of Stromboli.

      Right well in Hamburg revell’d he—­though Elbe ran rolling by—­
      He could have drain’d—­so fierce his thirst—­the mighty river dry! 
      With silk, and gold, and diamond, he cramm’d his hungry maw;
      And he tamed the wild republicans, who knew nor lord nor law!

      He feasted well in Moscow—­in the city of the Tsar—­
      When ’fore the northern streamers paled Napoleon’s lurid star: 
      Around the hoary Kremlin, where Moscow once had stood,
      He pass’d, and left a heap behind, of ashes slaked in blood!

      He feasted once in London—­he feasted best of all—­
      When through the close-packed city, he swept from wall to wall: 
      Even as of old the wrath of God came down in fiery rain,
      On Sodom and Gomorrha, on the Cities of the Plain!