The Hell Broth
THE devil and the devil’s brood
Around a boiling caldron hung,
While in a nook in merry mood
Grim Death a dainty ditty sung;
For guided by a baleful star
The devil himself had caused to beam,
Lo, myriads hurried from afar
To reap the fruit of a darksome dream:
On, on they came with cheek a-flame,
And lips that quivered as they sought
In tones subdued the demon brood,
For but a drop of the magic pot.
—Anon around was the hell-broth spun,
And a measure brimmed to old and young,
The while delighted with the fun,
Grim Death a dainty ditty sung.
That potion quaft, in his conceit
Behold the dwarf a giant tread,
At least a hundred thousand feet
Above his worthier neighbour’s head;
Despising still or lord or serf,
About the land he strutting goes,
‘Till bang against a brother dwarf,
The merry fellow runs his nose:
Thus many a one—loon, fop, and clown—
A lesson to their sorrow got,
And yet aloud they pray the brood
For deeper draughts of the magic pot.
—Anon around was the hell-broth spun,
And a measure drained by old and young,
The while delighted with the fun,
Grim Death a dainty ditty sung.
Now double-drugg’d the rout about
A soul-consuming furnace bore,
And what they took to put it out,
But only made it burn the more:
It burnt in heart, it burnt in brain,
And from its fumes arose a sprite,
One, whom her favours to obtain
They chased by day, they chased by night;
And still as they deemed her their prey,
Away, away with a leer she shot,
‘Mid cries right loud to the demon brood,
For deeper draughts of the magic pot.
—Again around was the hell-broth spun,
And a measure drained by old and young,
The while delighted with the fun,
Grim Death a daintier ditty sung.
So la, ta, la!—that fiery draught
Now led them one and all a dance:
Lo, ere the drug was wholly quaft,
Each threw on each a lurid glance;
And from that glance a wasp took wing,
From busy tongue to ear it flew,
And ever around it bore a sting
The devil himself had cause to rue:
It stung them black, it stung them blue,
And with each sting the louder got
Their cries right loud to the demon brood,
For deeper draughts of the magic pot.
—Again around was the hell-broth spun,
And a measure drained by old and young,
The while delighted with the fun,
Grim Death a daintier ditty sung.
That horrid draught being duly quaft,
A cry o’er plain and mountain rolled,
At which the strong the weaker took,
And bartered body and soul for gold:
And of the gold thus gotten they
At once a gloomy castle built
Whose dome might from the eye of day
Forever hide their horrid guilt:
Tombed in their victims’ blood-price thus,
Long revelled they and faltered not
To cry aloud to the demon brood,
For deeper draughts of the magic pot.
—But around no more was the hell-broth spun;
Awe-struck the fiends in the pot had sprung,
The while surfeited with the fun,
Death cursed the dainty lay he’d sung.
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