In pride they rais'd this building tall and fair,
Their hearts were on perpetual mischief bent,
With pride they preach'd, and pride was in their prayer,495
With pride they were deceiv'd, and so to hell they went.
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At distance far approaching to the tomb,
By lamps and lanthorns guided through the shade,
A coal-black chariot hurried through the gloom,
Spectres attending, in black weeds array'd,500
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Whose woeful forms yet chill my soul with dread,
Each wore a vest in Stygian chambers wove,
Death's kindred all—Death's horses they bestrode,
And gallop'd fiercely, as the chariot drove.
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Each horrid face a grizly mask conceal'd,505
Their busy eyes shot terror to my soul
As now and then, by the pale lanthorn's glare,
I saw them for their parted friend condole.
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Before the hearse Death's chaplain seem'd to go,
Who strove to comfort, what he could, the dead;510
Talk'd much of Satan, and the land of woe,
And many a chapter from the scriptures read.
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