Vi

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!