In vain.—The grisly Monarch of the Dead,
Stern Dis, uprears his gloomy head
Mid the black smoke and ruddy flames that wrap
Around old Ætna’s smould’ring top;
There, as the wandering Nymph he view’d,
Awhile in blank amaze he stood
Till Love to fury roused his blood.
He call’d his ebon Car and Steeds of fire:
They came, and with the headlong torrent’s speed
Down to the lily-spangled mead