And here and there, on Trees by Lightning scath'd,
Unhappy Wights who loathed Life yhung;
Or, in fresh Gore and recent Murder bath'd,
They weltering lay; or else, infuriate flung
Into the gloomy Flood, while Ravens sung
The funeral Dirge, they down the Torrent rowl'd:
These, by distemper'd Blood to Madness stung,
Had doom'd themselves; whence oft, when Night controul'd
The World, returning hither their sad Spirits howl'd.