Scarce six years' old she was: Her little feet
Were worn with endless pacing, up and down,
And round and round the cruel thoughtless town.
Her limbs were shrunk, and in her large round eyes
The light of coming madness seemed to rise.
No word she spoke, but sat, a prey to scorn,
Forsaken, friendless, feeble and forlorn.
And, as I pondered on her sorry tale,
One weird, unearthly, melancholy wail,
Broke from her lips:—a cry of agony,