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56
THE TRIUMPHS


But from these wretches turn thy fruitless care,
Behold the gulf before thee, and beware
Nor touch the stream, which mortal sense o'ercome
And by its baleful charm the soul benumbs!"
"—Can mortal pass!" the shudd'ring nymph replied,
"This sullen, slow, unnavigable tide,
In whose black current this enormous mound
OF shapeless stone appears, this horrid bound,
That seems an everlasting guard to keep
O'er the dull waters that beneath it creep?"
While yet she spoke, with a resounding shock,
Forth from the arch of the impending rock,
Which o'er the murmuring eddy hung so low,
The lazy river scarce had room to flow,
Of rude construction, and in roughest plight,
A boat now issu'd to Serena's sight;
An empty boat, that slowly to the shore
Advanc'd, without the aid of sail or oar;