"So on his Nɪɢʜᴛᴍᴀʀᴇ through the evening fog Flits the squab Fiend o’er fen, and lake, and bog; Seeks some love-wilder’d Maid with sleep oppress’d, Alights, and grinning sits upon her breast. —Such as of late amid the murky sky Was mark’d by Fᴜsᴇʟɪ’s poetic eye; Whose daring tints, with Sʜᴀᴋᴇsᴘᴇᴀʀ’s happiest grace, Gave to the airy phantom form and place.— Back o’er her pillow sinks her blushing head, Her snow-white limbs hang helpless from the bed; While with quick sighs, and suffocative breath, Her interrupted heart-pulse swims in death. —Then shrieks of captured towns, and widows’ tears, Pale lovers stretch’d upon their blood-stain’d biers, The headlong precipice that thwarts her flight, The trackless desert, the cold starless night, And stern-eye’d Murder with his knife behind, In dread succession agonize her mind. O’er her fair limbs convulsive tremors fleet, Start in her hands, and struggle in her feet; In vain to scream with quivering lips she tries, And strains in palsy’d lids her tremulous eyes; In vain she wills to run, fly, swim, walk, creep; The Wɪʟʟ presides not in the bower of Sʟᴇᴇᴘ. —On her fair bosom sits the Demon-Ape Erect, and balances his bloated shape; Rolls in their marble orbs his Gorgon-eyes, And drinks with leathern ears her tender cries."