Now on a towering arch of waves we rise, Heaved on the bounding billows, to the skies. Then, as the roaring surge retreating fell, We shoot down head… - Christopher Pitt

Poor pitied youth! ... Bring fragrant flowers, the whitest lilies bring, With all the purple beauties of the spring; These gifts at least, these honours I'll bestow On the dear youth, to please his shade below.

Ye subterranean gods! whose awful sway
The gliding ghosts and silent shades obey:
O Chaos, hear! and Phlegethon profound!
Whose solemn empire stretches wide around!
Give me, ye great tremendous powers! to tell
Of scenes and wonders in the depths of Hell;
Give me your mighty secrets to display
From those black realms of darkness to the day.

To all, proportioned terms he must dispense, And make the sound a picture of the sense.