Upon a city’s gate ’twas plac’d,
With dust and clotted gore defac’d;’
She shriek’d not—but her heart’s hot blood
Mounted in gushes to her brain,
This cannot be—oh, gracious God!
Is this her luckless lover slain?
But the foul spirit by his power,
Sustain’d her through her trying hour.
Yet once again
The vision came.