Oceans were blent, and the leviathan Was borne aloft on the ascending seas To where the eagles nestled. Mountains now Were the sole landmarks, and their sides were clothed With clustering myriads, from the weltering waste Whose surges clasped them, to their topmost peaks Swathed in the stooping cloud. The hand of Death Smote millions as they climbed; yet denser grew The crowded nations, as the encroaching waves Narrowed their little world. And in that hour, Did no man aid his fellow. Love of life Was the sole instinct; and the strong-limbed son, With imprecations smote the palsied sire That clung to him for succor. Women trod With wavering steps the precipice's brow, And found no arm to grasp on the dread verge O'er which she leaned and trembled. Selfishness Sat like an incubus on every heart, Smothering the voice of Love. The giant's foot Was on the stripling's neck: and oft despair Grappled the ready steel, and kindred blood Polluted the last remnant of that earth Which God was deluging to purify. Huge monsters from the plains, whose skeletons The mildew of succeeding centuries Has failed to crumble, with unwieldy strength Crushed through the solid crowds; and fiercest birds, Beat downward by the ever-rushing rain, With blinded eyes, drenched plumes, and trailing wings, Staggered unconscious o'er the trampled prey. THE WORM OF THE STILL. I have found what the learned seemed so puzzled to tell-- The true shape of the Devil, and where is his Hell; Into serpents, of old, crept the Author of Ill, But Satan works now as a worm of the still. Of all his migrations, this last he likes best: How the arrogant reptile here raises his crest! His head winding up from the tail of his plan, Till the worm stands erect o'er the prostrated man. Here, he joys to transform, by his magical spell, The sweet milk of the Earth to an Essence of Hell; Fermented our food, and corrupted our grain, To famish the stomach and madden the brain. By his water of life, what distraction and fear; By the gloom of its light, what pale spectres appear! A Demon keeps time on his fiddle finance, While his Passions spring up in a horrible dance! Then prone on the earth, they adore in the dust, A man's baser half, raised, in room of his bust. Such orgies the nights of the drunkard display, But how black with ennui, how benighted his day! With drams it begins, and with drams must it end; A dram is his country, his mistress, his friend; Till the ossified heart hates itself at the last, And the dram nerves his hand for a death-doing blast.