LXXVI.
Of those he rescu'd had from gaping Hell,
Then turn'd the Knight; and, to his Hall again
Soft-pacing, sought of Peace the mossy Cell;
Yet down his Cheeks the Gems of Pity fell,
To see the helpless Wretches that remain'd.
There left through Delves and Deserts dire to yell;
Amaz'd, their Looks with pale Dismay were stain'd,
And spreading wide their Hands they meek Repentance feign'd.
LXXVII.
For (Horrible to tell!) a Desert wild
Before them stretch'd, bare, comfortless, and vast;
With Gibbets, Bones, and Carcases defil'd.
There nor trim Field, nor lively Culture smil'd;
Nor waving Shade was seen, nor Fountain fair;
But Sands abrupt on Sands lay loosely pil'd,
Through which they floundering toil'd with painful Care,
Whilst Phœbus smote them sore, and fir'd the cloudless Air.
LXXVIII.
