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54
THE TRIUMPHS


Who, bred in vanity, with pride their dower,
Were Spleen's sure victims from their natal hour,
And in their splendid cradles pul'd and pin'd,
Till Fate their ill-spun thread of life untwin'd,
And to this vestibule convey'd their ghosts,
To form the vanguard of th' infernal hosts.
But let not pity's ineffectual charm
Impede thy progress, or thy strength disarm!
Follow and fear not! guarded by my care
From all the phantoms that around thee glare."
She spoke: and enter'd, ere the nymph replied,
A pass, that open'd in the cavern's side,
Low, dark, and rocky—with her body bent,
Serena follow'd down the dire descent.
A sudden light soon struck her dazzled view;
But 'twas a light of such infernal hue,
As double horror to the darkness gave,
With dread reflection from a dusky wave.
Round a black water tatter'd spectres stand,
With each a tiny taper in its hand;