From his great beam a scream resound the skies
As they progress—swift as an eagle flies.
With him came Mors, who gave two heavy sighs;
A hundred deaths she had attended to,
But never one like this—so fraught with woe!
Her vesture hanging in loose folds of black,
Her hair all straighten’d o’er her graceful back,
Betokened grief; she ne’er conceived to crave
Poor Bacchus for the dread and dismal grave:
No, no, ’twas he himself,—his great excess,