vacancy Was fix’d; her breath short panted. The cold Fiend, Grasping her hand, exclaim’d, “too-timid Maid, So long repugnant to the healing aid My friendship proffers, now shalt thou behold The allotted length of life.” He stamp’d the earth, And dragging a huge coffin as his car, Two Gouls came on, of form more fearful-foul Than ever palsied in her wildest dream Hag-ridden Superstition. Then Despair Seiz’d on the Maid whose curdling blood stood still. And placed her in the seat; and on they pass’d Adown the deep descent. A meteor light Shot from the Daemons, as they dragg’d along The unwelcome load, and mark’d their brethren glut On carcasses. Below the vault dilates Its ample bulk. “Look here!”—Despair addrest The shuddering Virgin, “see the dome of Death!” It was a spacious cavern, hewn amid The entrails of the earth, as tho’ to form The grave of all mankind: no eye could reach, Tho’ gifted with the Eagle’s ample ken, Its distant bounds. There, thron’d in darkness, dwelt The unseen Power of Death. Here stopt the Gouls, Reaching the destin’d spot. The Fiend leapt out, And from the coffin, as he led the Maid, Exclaim’d, “Where never yet stood mortal man, Thou standest: look around this boundless vault; Observe the dole that Nature deals to man, And learn to know thy friend.” She not replied, Observing where the Fates their several tasks Plied ceaseless. “Mark how short the longest web Allowed to man! he cried; observe how soon, Twin’d round yon never-resting wheel, they change Their snowy hue, darkening thro’ many a shade, Till Atropos relentless shuts the sheers!”  Too true he spake, for of the countless threads, Drawn from the heap, as white as unsunn’d snow, Or as the lovely lilly of the vale, Was never one beyond the little span Of infancy untainted: few there were But lightly tinged; more of deep crimson hue, Or deeper sable died.[4] Two Genii stood, Still as the web of Being was drawn forth, Sprinkling their powerful drops. From ebon urn, The one unsparing dash’d the bitter wave Of woe; and as he dash’d, his dark-brown brow Relax’d to a hard smile. The milder form Shed less profusely there his lesser store; Sometimes with tears increasing the scant boon, Mourning the lot of man; and happy he Who on his thread those precious drops receives; If it be happiness to have the pulse Throb fast with pity, and in such a world Of wretchedness, the generous heart that aches With anguish at the sight of human woe. To her the Fiend, well hoping now success, “This is thy thread! observe how short the span, And see how copious yonder Genius pours The bitter stream of woe.” The Maiden saw Fearless. “Now gaze!” the tempter Fiend exclaim’d, And placed again the poniard in her hand, For Superstition, with sulphureal torch Stalk’d to the loom. “This, Damsel, 

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