Then, varying to a joyless Land of Bogs,
The sadden'd Country a grey Waste appear'd;
Where Nought but putrid Steams and noisome Fogs
For ever hung on drizzly  Beard;
Or else the Ground by piercing  sear'd,
Was jagg'd with Frost, or heap'd with glazed Snow:
Through these Extremes a ceaseless Round they steer'd,
By cruel Fiends still hurry'd to and fro,
Gaunt  and  with many Hell-Hounds moe.