LXII.
Vainly she calls for help in fainting tones,
Only the watchful echoes heed the sound,
Respondless bearing on her hapless moans,
Fainter and fainter o'er the moonlit ground—
On—on—she hurries o'er the flinty stones,
Like spirit on some dreadful mission bound;
And from that guilty threshold as she stept,
The grave clothes off her trembling footprints swept.