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As rigid stretch'd each hand,—her face was press'd Close to the earth; and but the heaving vest Told of some pang the shuddering frame confess'd, She seem'd as stricken down by instant death.— Sudden she raised her head, and gasp'd for breath; And nature master'd misery. She sought, Panting, the air from yonder lattice brought. Ah, there is blood on that white lip and brow!— She struggles still—in vain—she must weep now: She wept, childlike, till sleep began to press Upon her eyes, for very weariness. She sleeps!—so sleeps the wretch beside the stake: She sleeps!—how dreadful from such sleep to wake!

She was both proud and cold: not hers the heart Easy to lure, and ready to depart—