Meanwhile the demons, filthy and foul,
Gorgon, Chimera, Harpy, and Ghoul,
Are not contented to jibber and howl
  As a dirge for their late commander;
But one of the bevy—­witch or wizard,
Disguised as a monstrous flying lizard,
  Springs on the grisly Salamander,
Who stoutly fights, and struggles, and kicks. 
And tries the best of his wrestling tricks,
      No paltry strife,
      But for life, dear life. 
But the ruthless talons refuse to unfix,
  Till far beyond a surgical case,
  With starting eyes, and black in the face,
Down he tumbles as dead as bricks!

A pretty sight for his mates to view! 
Those shaggy murderers looking so blue,
      And for him above all,
      Red-bearded and tall,
With whom, at that very particular nick,
There is such an unlucky crow to pick,
As the one of iron that did the trick
  In a recent bloody affair—­
No wonder feeling a little sick,
With pulses beating uncommonly quick,
And breath he never found so thick,
  He longs for the open air!

      Three paces, or four,
      And he gains the door;
  But ere he accomplishes one,
The sound of a blow comes, heavy and dull,
And clasping his fingers round his skull—­
  However the deed was done,
      That gave him that florid
      Red gash on the forehead—­
With a roll of the eyeballs perfectly horrid,
      There’s a tremulous quiver,
      The last death-shiver,
  And Red-Beard’s course is run!

      Halloo!  Halloo! 
      They have done for two! 
But a heavyish job remains to do! 
  For yonder, sledge and shovel in hand,
Like elder Sons of Giant Despair,
  A couple of Cyclops make a stand,
And fiercely hammering here and there,
Keep at bay the Powers of Air—­
But desperation is all in vain!—­
  They faint—­they choke,
  For the sulphurous smoke
Is poisoning heart, and lung, and brain,
They reel, they sink, they gasp, they smother. 
One for a moment survives his brother,
Then rolls a corpse across the other!

      Halloo!  Halloo! 
      And Hullabaloo! 
There is only one more thing to do—­
And seized by beak, and talon, and claw,
Bony hand, and hairy paw,
Yea, crooked horn, and tusky jaw,
The four huge Bodies are haul’d and shoven
Each after each in the roaring oven!

* * * * *

That Eisen Hutte is standing still,
Go to the Hartz whenever you will,
And there it is beside a hill,
And a rapid stream that turns many a mill;
The self-same Forge,—­you’ll know it at sight—­
Casting upward, day and night,
Flames of red, and yellow, and white!

Ay, half a mile from the mountain gorge,
There it is, the famous Forge,
With its Furnace,—­the same that blazed of yore,—­
Hugely fed with fuel and ore;
But ever since that tremendous Revel,
  Whatever Iron is melted therein,—­
  As Travellers know who have been to Berlin—­
Is all as black as the Devil!