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.