Hurried by these, the wife could sit no more,
But must the terrors of the night explore. 540
Softly she left her door, her garden gate,
And seem’d as then committed to her fate;
To every horrid thought and doubt a prey,
She hurried on, already lost her way;
Oft as she glided on in that sad night,
She stopp’d to listen, and she look’d for light.
An hour she wander’d, and was still to learn
Aught of her husband’s safety or return: