Behind them stood the Fates, of aspect black,
Grim, slaughter-breathing, stern, insatiable,
Gnashing their white fangs; and fierce conflict held
For those who fell. Each eager-thirsting sought
To quaff the sable blood. Whom first they snatch’d
Prostrate, or staggering with the fresh-made wound,
On him they struck their talons huge: the soul
Fled down th’ abyss, the horror-freezing gulf
Of Tartarus. They, glutted to the heart
With human gore, behind them cast the corse: