Who serv'd as Porters to the gloomy Dome:
Here, stretch'd upon a miserable Couch,
Lay pining Sickness with continual Groans;
And by her Side, (array'd in filthy Weeds)
Sat quaking Poverty with ghastly stare:
His Presence seem'd to aggravate her Pain,
For when she cast her languid Eyes on him,
She hid her Face and rais'd a fearful Cry.
There Disappointment like a Statue stood,
With Eyes dejected and with Visage pale:
Her heaving Bosom seem'd to swell with Anguish,
And in her Hand she grasp'd a broken Reed:
Here, in the Garb of Piety, we saw
Proud Error frowning with a Look severe:
Doubt at his Elbow bore a Rod of Snakes,
And held a Cup fill'd to the Brim with Tears,
By these we pass'd into the dusky Court,
O'er-run with Hemlock and with gloomy Fern:
Perpetual Night hung o'er the dismal Walls,
And from the Ground unhealthy Vapours rose;
Through folding Doors of Ebony we came,
Into a winding Passage hung with black,
For ever dark — possest by flitting Shades,
By waking Fancies, and by frightful Dreams
This led us to a subterraneous Cell,
Where the sad Empress  reign'd;
The musing Matron sat upon a Throne
Of mould'ring Earth — her Footstool of the same;
And for her Canopy an aged Yew
Spread o'er her Head its venerable Arms:
Her careless Robe was of a sable Hue,
And on her Shoulders flow'd her slighted Hair:
Her Lips were clos'd with an eternal Silence;
Her Arms were folded and her Head reclin'd;
On either Side her pale Attendants stood,
Two mournful Maids, Dejection and Despair;
The first (attended with continual Faintings)
Seem'd on the Point to close her dying Eyes:
A constant Dew hung on her death-like Brow,
And her cold Bosom half forgot to heave.
Despair (whose Garments by herself were torn)
Was mark'd with Wounds that Time can never heal:
With desp'rate Hand she struck her bleeding Breast,
And wash'd the Ground with never-ceasing Tears;
With ghastly Figures was the Cave adorn'd,
And in the midst the Effigies of Death.