The rain revived me, and I leaned with pain
And saw her lying there, pale, soiled and splashed
And miserable; on her cheek a stain,
A dull red bruise, made when his mad hand dashed
And struck her to the stones; the wretched rain
Dripped from her dark hair; and her hands were gashed.--
Oh, for a musket or a petronel
With which to send his devil's soul to hell!