Runs to each avenue, and shrieks for help;
But shrieks in vain! How wishfully she looks
On all she’s leaving, now no longer hers!
A little longer; yet a little longer;
Oh! might she stay to wash away her stains;
And fit her for her passage! Mournful sight!
Her very eyes weep blood, and every groan
She heaves is big with horror. But the foe,
Like a stanch murderer, steady to his purpose,
Pursues her close, through every lane of life,