In hellward realms wherein all hope expires

Beyond the reach of noontide's brightest ray,

In caverns carved by ancient igneous fires

Beneath Eiglophian mountains bleak and grim,

The ebon-bodied Spider-God holds sway

And spins from rim to rim,

Athwart a chasm vast and bottomless,

His endless web of raddled bands

Like to the tangled woof of dooms decreed

For all who moil in mortal pointlessness

And clutching, mundane greed.

 

O Atlach-Nacha, sapient Lord of Fate,

Beneath thy taut-stretched trembling strands

Dark dooms await

Where gape those black, submundane hells

Down which, with dreadful shrieks,

Plunge multitudes of souls whose proud desires

Enthralled them to thy luring spells

And drew them down beneath the frowning peaks

And towering needle-spires

Into thy darksome, deadly regions;

To thee they swarmed with greedy, grasping hands

In foredoomed lemming-legions.

 

Spin on eternally, O Spider-King

Destined to weave thy webs of Destiny

O'er  sullen gulfs sub-Hyperborean,

Till all Earth's souls, of every land and sea

From Mhu Thulan to isles Antillian,

Are drawn into thy strands and feel thy deadly sting.