All the circles of flame-lick'd hell,
Now echo with sounds of black-cast bell,
As from dreadful wheels the poor folk feature,
Like the crosses sinful once were hang'd,
And on them, the pantheon's sharp-fang'd gift,
Alights the eagle, as powerful on powerless,
Who ever, under some absurd giant's feet,
Complain how poorly the rich the poor treat.
Yet now! listen as the molten masses surge,
Pounding the blood of hell's heart to come,
Purging away all excess in fires aflame -
'Tis known! from virgin wheels scream the loud'st!
Yet how follows? as even in these ashen circles bloom,
Now the blossoms in grey and desolate gloom,
And attract a pack of much suffer'd wolves,
That would make and dine in tormentor's plains,
As if reposed under heaven's solemn light,
Making abode in that sanctuary's graceful might,
But no! a momentary respite, but a lax in pains,
Yet even for that, those melancholy blue flowers!
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