And tons of loadstones weighing on his soul;
And eye out-stretched upon some vasty map
Of uncouth worlds, which ever onward roll
To infinite—like Revelation's scroll.
Now falling headlong from his mountain bed
Down sulph'rous space, o'er dismal lakes;
Now held by hand of air—on wings of lead
He tries to rise—gasping—the hands' hold breaks,
And downward he reels through shadows of the dead,
Who cannot die though stalking in hell's flakes,