48

At his command tlic pestilence abhorrM

Spares the poor slave, and smites the haughty lord ;

While to the tomb he sees his friend consign'd,

Foreboding melancholy sinks his mind,

Soon at his heart he feels the monster's fangs,

They tear his vitals with convulsive pangs ;

The light is anguish to his eye, the air

Sepulchral vapours laden with despair ;

Now frenzy -horrors rack his whirling brain,

Tremendous pulses throb through every vein ;

The firm earth shrinks beneath his torture-bed,

The sky in ruins rushes o'er his head ;

He rolls, he rages in consuming fires,

Till nature spent, with agony expires.

��END OF THE tHIRD PART.

�� �