And all the wheeling fire was rife
With haunting fears, her broken breath
Grew short with this prophetic strife;
What was for one the dawn of life,
Would be for one the dawn of death.
Meantime the stranger with a lamp,
Which lit the darkness, small and wan,
Searched where the mules did tramp and stamp,
Amid the litter and the damp,
For some small place to rest upon.