THE DOOM OF THE ESQUIRE BEDELL.

Adown the torturing mile of street

I mark him come and go,

Thread in and out with tireless feet

The crossings to and fro;

A soul that treads without retreat

A labyrinth of woe.

Palsied with awe of such despair,

All living things give room,

They flit before his sightless glare

As horrid shapes, that loom

And shriek the curse that bids him bear

The symbol of his doom.

The very stones are coals that bake

And scorch his fevered skin;

A fire no hissing hail may slake

Consumes his heart within.

Still must he hasten on to rake

The furnace of his sin.

Still forward! forward! For he feels

Fierce claws that pluck his breast,

And blindly beckon as he reels

Upon his awful quest:

For there is that behind his heels

Knows neither ruth nor rest.

The fiends in hell have flung the dice;

The destinies depend

On feet that run for fearful price,

And fangs that gape to rend;

And still the footsteps of his Vice

Pursue him to the end:—

The feet of his incarnate Vice

Shall dog him to the end.