Deep dread and loathing of these horrors crude,
Fell on my Soul, hard to be borne,
She cried, "Why should these incubi intrude
And plague us night and morn?
"What! is not this a civilised town," she said,
"A spacious city, cultured, free?
Why give it up to dismalness and dread,
Murder and misery?"
In every corner of that city stood,