Stood Misery: wan, ghastly, worn with woe:
Arid, and swoln of knees; with hunger’s pains
Faint-falling: from her lean hands long the nails
Out-grew: an ichor from her nostrils flow’d:
Blood from her cheeks distill’d to earth: with teeth
All wide disclosed in grinning agony
She stood: a cloud of dust her shoulders spread,
And her eyes ran with tears. But next arose
[263]A well-tower’d city, by seven golden gates
Enclosed, that fitted to their lintels hung: