And beyond, scarce a league to the west,
Yawns a treacherous chasm, dark and deep,
Where death lurks like a serpent asleep,
And the rider must ride at his best,
And his steed take the terrible leap
Like a winged creature cleaving the air,
Else a grim, ghastly corpse shall be there,
With perchance a steed stark on its breast,
And the moon shall look down with a stare
Where they lie in perpetual rest.