Walls, town,
And port,
Refuge
Of death,
Gray sea
Where breaks
The breeze,
All sleeps.

On the plain
Comes a sound:
'Tis the breath
Of the night,
With a wail
Like a soul
By a flame
Ever chased.

A louder voice
Sounds like a bell.
A hopping dwarf
Gallops along.
He flees and leaps,
Then in cadence
Trips on one foot
At the wave's end.

The rumor grows near,
The echo repeats.
Like the sounding bell
Of a curst convent,
Like a crowd's hubbub
That [thunders and rolls,
And]1 now falls away
And now swells again.

God! The sepulchral voice
Of the Jinns! What a sound!
Let us flee underneath 
The deep spiral staircase!
Already my lamp fades,
And the railing's shadow 
Creeping along the wall
Rises to the ceiling.

'Tis a swarm of Jinns passing,
Whirling about and whistling.
The yews, blown down by their flight,
Crackle like a burning pine.
Their heavy and rapid pack,
Flying in the empty space,
Seems to be a livid cloud 
Bearing lightning in its flank.

They are close by! — let us keep shut
This chamber where we defy them.
What noise outside! What an army
Of frightful vampires and dragons!
The roof is pried open; its beam
Buckles like a wet blade of grass,
And the ancient, rust-covered door
Trembles and rips out its hinges!

Cries from hell! Voice of screaming and weeping!
The horrible swarm, pushed by the North Wind,
Surely, O heaven! rains down on my home.
The wall bends beneath the black regiment.
The house cries out, leaning and tottering,
And one would say that, torn out of the soil,
Just as it pursues a dry, withered leaf,
The wind rolls it along with its whirling!

O prophet! If saved by your hand
From these unclean fiends of the night
I will bow down my shaven brow
In front of your sacred censers!
Ensure that on these faithful doors
Their breath of sparks is extinguished,
And that the sharp claws of their wings
Scratch in vain at these black windows!

They have passed by! — their cohort 
Takes off and flees, and their feet 
No longer batter my door
With their profusion of blows.
The sound of chains fills the air,
And in the nearby forests,
All the great oak trees tremble,
Bent under their fiery flight.

The beating of their wings
Fades into the distance,
So vague above the plains,
So weak, that one might think 
It is a grasshopper 
Chirping in its thin voice,
Or the patter of hail
On an old leaden roof.

Some strange syllables 
Still come to our ears;
Thus Arabs at times,
When the horn sounds forth,
On the sandy shore 
Raise their ardent chant,
And the dreaming child
Dreams a golden dream!

The ghastly Jinns,
Offspring of death,
In the shadows 
Hurry their steps;
Their swarm rumbles:
Thus, in the depths,
Murmurs a wave
That can't be seen.

This vague sound,
Ebbing now,
Is the wave
On the shore;
'Tis the plaint
Nearly stilled 
Of a saint
For the dead.

One doubts
At night...
I hark: —
All flees,
All fades;
And space
Bestills
The sound.