on. Presently a whirlwind
arose, and dispersed the pitch-black cloud, which was spread universally
over the face of the land of Oblivion, and by the light of a thousand
candles, which were burning with a blue flame, at a particular place, I
obtained a far distant view of the verge of the _Bottomless Gulf_, a
sight exceedingly horrible; and also of a spectacle above, still more
appalling, namely _Justice_ upon his _supreme seat_, holding the keys of
Hell, at a separate and distinct tribunal over the chasm, to pronounce
judgment upon the damned as they came. I could see the prisoners cast
headlong down the gulf, and Pettifogger rushing to fling himself over the
terrific brink, rather than look once on the court of _Justice_. For oh!
there was there a spectacle too severe for a guilty countenance. I
merely gazed from _afar_, but I beheld more terrific horror, than I can
at present relate, or I could at that time support, for my spirit
struggled and fluttered at the awful sight, and wrestled so strenuously,
that it burst all the bands of Sleep, and my soul returned to its
accustomed functions. And exceedingly overjoyed I was to see myself
still amongst the living. I instantly determined upon reforming myself,
as a hundred years of affliction in the paths of righteousness, would be
less harrowing to me, than another glance on the horrors of this night.

Death the Great.

Leave land and house we must some day,
For human sway not long doth bide;
Leave pleasures and festivities,
And pedigrees, our boast and pride.

Leave strength and loveliness of mien,
Wit sharp and keen, experience dear;
Leave learning deep, and much lov'd friends,
And all that tends our life to cheer.

From Death then is there no relief?
That ruthless thief and murderer fell,
Who to his shambles beareth down
All, all we own, and us as well.

Ye monied men, ye who would fain
Your wealth retain eternally,
How brave 'twould be a sum to raise,
And the good grace of Death to buy!

How brave! ye who with beauty beam,
On rank supreme who fix your mind,
Should ye your captivations muster,
And with their lustre king Death blind.

O ye who are at foot most light,
Who are in the height now of your spring,
Fly, fly, and ye will make us gape,
If ye can scape Death's cruel fling.

The song and dance afford, I ween,
Relief from spleen, and sorrows grave;
How very strange there is no dance,
Nor tune of France, from Death can save!

Ye travel