Shifts the gloomy scene once more,
To a narrow, crooked street;
In a wretched liquor store
Sits a man we've seen before,
Musing on things not sweet.
He might seem to view intent
Watered spirits in a glass,
For his eyes on that are bent,
But his thoughts are wandering sent
Alter that murdered lass.
In this street—the very same,
That most shocking act was done;
It had nearly lost its fame,
Yet remembered was the name
Of that pool maiden lone.
When her name was spoke 'tis said
Chilling honor seized the soul
Of both high and lowly bred;
All who heard were filled with dread
Which they could scarce control.
Seems the man irresolute
About the drink before him placed.
Now, his gestures are not mute,
Showing feelings most acute,
And such as might be traced.
Bodingly he shakes his head,
Deep-drawn lengthy sigh then heaves
His broad chest, for her now dead!
Bitter tears are freely shed
As he for sister grieves.
In plain sailor's clothes he's dressed,
Anchor blue is on his hand.
A woman's eyes now on him rest,
Who, with babe upon her breast,
Speaks him in accents bland.
"Does the liquor suit your taste?
Is there nothing else you need?"
From his seat he rose with haste,
On the floor his feet he braced;
"I'm thinking of that deed!"
Quickly swallows he the drink,
Then asks, "Is not this the street?"
"What street? Come, yourself bethink!"
"I will; yet from it I shrink.
Sweet girl, we ne'er shall meet!"
"Tell, good woman, if you can,
Where she "—Once again a pause.
Turns she now afresh to scan
The face of that most wretched man.
So very full of woes.