text_original: all is lost ! O Prophet ! if thy baud but now Save from these foul and hellish things, A pilgrim at thy shrine I '11 bow, Laden with pious offerings. Bid their hot breath its fiery rain Stream on my faithful door in vain, Vainly upon my blackened pane Grate the fierce claws of their dark wings
text_transcription: ALL IS LOST O PROPHET IF THY HAND BUT NOW SAVE FROM THESE FOUL AND HELLISH THINGS A PILGRIM AT THY SHRINE I'LL BOW LADEN WITH PIOUS OFFERINGS BID THEIR HOT BREATH ITS FIERY RAIN STREAM ON MY FAITHFUL DOOR IN VAIN VAINLY UPON MY BLACKEN'D PANE GRATE THE FIERCE CLAWS OF THEIR DARK WINGS
phonemes: ˈɔːl ɪz lˈɔst ! ˈoʊ pɹˈɑːfɪt ! ɪf ðˌaɪ bˈɔːd bˌʌt nˈaʊ sˈeɪv fɹʌm ðiːz fˈaʊl ænd hˈɛlɪʃ θˈɪŋz, ɐ pˈɪlɡɹɪm æt ðˌaɪ ʃɹˈaɪn aɪ ɪlˈɛvən bˈoʊ, lˈeɪdən wɪð pˈaɪəs ˈɔfɚɹɪŋz. bˈɪd ðɛɹ hˈɑːt bɹˈɛθ ɪts fˈaɪɚɹi ɹˈeɪn stɹˈiːm ˌɔn maɪ fˈeɪθfəl dˈɔːɹ ɪn vˈeɪn, vˈeɪnli əpˌɑːn maɪ blˈækənd pˈeɪn ɡɹˈeɪt ðə fˈɪɹs klˈɔːz ʌv ðɛɹ dˈɑːɹk wˈɪŋz