Iv

So, but from toil less sign of profit reaping, The sullen Spectre to her purpose bowed, Sweeping--vehemently sweeping-- No pause admitted, no design avowed! "Avaunt, inexplicable Guest!--avaunt," Exclaimed the Chieftain--"let me rather see The coronal that coiling vipers make; The torch that flames with many a lurid flake, And the long train of doleful pageantry Which they behold, whom vengeful Furies haunt; Who, while they struggle from the scourge to flee, Move where the blasted soil is not unworn, And, in their anguish, bear what other minds have borne!"