Yes, it is Hugo, and here is a translation, don't know how good it actually is:

  Djinns

    

  Walls, city,
  And port,
  Asylum
  Of death,
  Gray sea
  Where breaks
  Breeze,
  All sleeps.

    

In the plain
  Is born a noise.
  It is the breath
  Night.
  It slab
  Like a heart
  That a flame
  Always follows!

    

The higher voice
  Seem a grelot.
  Of a dwarf who jumps
  It flees, springs,
  Then in rate
  On a foot dances
  At the end of a flood.

    

The rumour approaches.
  The echo repeats it.
  It is like the bell
  Of a convent maudit;
  Like a noise of crowd,
  Who thunders and who rolls,
  And sometimes collapses,
  And sometimes grows,

    

God! the sepulchral voice
  Djinns!... What a noise they make!
  Let us flee under the spiral
  Deep staircase.
  Already my lamp dies out,
  And shade of the slope,
  Who along the wall crawls,
  Go up up to the ceiling.

    

It is the swarm of the Djinns which passes,
  And whirls while whistling!
  Yews, that their flight crashes to pieces,
  Crack like an extreme pine.
  Their herd, heavy and fast,
  Flying in empty space,
  Seem a livid cloud
  Who carries a flash to the side.

    

They are near! - Tenons closed
  This room, where narguons we them.
  What a noise outside! Hideous army
  Vampires and dragons!
  The beam of the roof loosened
  Ploie as well as a wet grass,
  And the old rusted door
  Tremble, to uproot its hinges!
    

Cries of the hell! voice which howls and which cries!
  The horrible swarm, pushed by the north wind,
  Undoubtedly, ô sky! falls down on my residence.
  The wall bends under the black battalion.
  The house shouts and staggers leaning,
  And it would be said that, of the ground torn off,
  As it drives out a dried sheet,
  The wind rolls it with their swirl!

    

Prophet! if your hand saves me
  Of these impure demons of the evenings,
  I will go prosterner my face bald person
  In front of your crowned encensoirs!
  Make that on these faithful doors
  Their breath of sparks dies,
  And that in vain the nail of their wings
  Squeak and shouts with these black stained glasses!

    

They passed! - Their troop
  Fly away, and flees, and their feet
  Cease beating my door
  Their multiplied blows.
  The air is full with a noise of chains,
  And in the nearest forests
  All the large oaks shiver,
  Under their flight of fire folded!

    

Their remote wings
  The beat decrease,
  If confused in the plains,
  If weak, that one believes
  Ouïr the grasshopper
  To shout of a spindly voice,
  Or to sparkle hail
  On the lead of an old roof.

    

Strange syllables
  Us come encor;
  Thus, of Arabic
  When the horn sounds,
  A song on the strike
  Per moments rises,
  And the child who dreams
  Fact of the gold dreams.

    

Funeral Djinns,
  Wire of the demise,
  In darkness
  Their steps have a presentiment of;
  Their swarm thunders:
  Thus, deep,
  Murmur a wave
  That one does not see.

    

This vague noise
  Who falls asleep,
  It is the wave
  On the edge;
  It is the complaint,
  Almost extinct,
  Of holy
  For a death.

    

One doubts
  The night...
  I listen: -
  All flees,
  Any master key
  Space
  Erase
  Noise.

    

It would make an interesting song; I hear something like "Night on Bald Mountain".....