The bridal of Vaumond :: :: University of Virginia Library

The lady in her terrors lost,
The mighty nave scarce conscious crost;
And, e'er her steps the chancel won,
All sight, all sound distinct, were gone,
For a mingling glare bedimm'd her eye,
That seem'd to mock at every die,
That tints the bow which spans the sky.
Seem'd it many a twisted snake
Breath'd forth each one a varying flake,
That wildly lit the kindling wall,
Where light intense outshone them all;
Where no embodied soul may gaze
On the uncouth symbols of the blaze—
It was so fierce and deep to see,
So livid was its brilliancy!
Beneath the serpent's foul embrace,
Was the hideous altar of the place;
And seem'd, that from the Isle of Bones
Were dug its grisly stepping-stones—

The island of Ustica, where several thousand Carthaginians are said to have perished by famine.

Upon the shrine she might not look,
But on it lay an open book—

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While blacker fast, the sleepy spell,
In gathering shadows, round her fell,
A fearful thought flash'd on her soul,
That of dead men's skins was form'd the scroll,
And its letters bright were writ with fire
That was, and is, and never shall expire!