Thy struggles are useless,—’tis revenge’s fell clasp
That holds thee resistless within its close grasp.
Look your last on my face, while thus with a blow[657]
I send your black soul to the regions below;—[658]
There[659]—Count de la Fontelle; now join your fair spouse
In the chambers of hell,[660] and keep your carouse—
Ha! that twinge again;[661]—twice I felt it before,—
And a drowsy sensation[662] seems now stealing o’er
All my frame;—God of heaven! what is this?[663] Can it be?