Where, in brief space, myriads of demons urge

One quivering form to Hell’s red hideous verge.

{42}

{42}

XLII.

Methought, a breath stole and unsealed my eyes

And bared the workings of the carcase world;

An engine, like a skeleton, ever plies

A trade infernal, Death’s flag stood unfurled;

With iron teeth, I mark’d, this hell-fiend tore

The gaspings relics of Creation’s throes;

Fitted to a rack each substance, looming more,

Lengthens unnatural shapes, in awful rows;

And howlings, tears, and shriekings thrill’d the night,

That mourn’d for ever, dumbly consonant;

Each shape, to other bound in pitiless plight,

Reluctant, must destroy, foster, or plant,

What, it knows not, and cares not; whizzing wheels

Whirl, till the sick heart pants, the mad brain reels.

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