Turning to view the object whence it came,
My frighted eyes a horrid form survey'd;
Fancy, I own thy power—Death on the couch,
With fleshless limbs, at rueful length, was laid.100
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And o'er his head flew jealousies and cares,
Ghosts, imps, and half the black Tartarian crew,
Arch-angels damn'd, nor was their Prince remote,
Borne on the vaporous wings of Stygian dew.
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Around his bed, by the dull flambeaux' glare,105
I saw pale phantoms—Rage to madness vext,
Wan, wasting grief, and ever musing care,
Distressful pain, and poverty perplext.
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Sad was his countenance, if we can call
That countenance, where only bones were seen110
And eyes sunk in their sockets, dark and low,
And teeth, that only show'd themselves to grin.
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Reft was his scull of hair, and no fresh bloom
Of chearful mirth sate on his visage hoar:
Sometimes he rais'd his head, while deep-drawn groans115
Were mixt with words that did his fate deplore.
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