Adown the torturing mile of street br I mark him come and go, br Thread in and out with tireless feet br The crossings to and fro; br A soul that treads without retreat br A labyrinth of woe. br Palsied with awe of such despair, br All living things give room, br They flit before his sightless glare br As horrid shapes, that loom br And shriek the curse that bids him bear br The symbol of his doom. br The very stones are coals that bake br And scorch his fevered skin; br A fire no hissing hail may slake br Consumes his heart within. br Still must he hasten on to rake br The furnace of his sin. br Still forward! forward! For he feels br Fierce claws that pluck his breast, br And blindly beckon as he reels br Upon his awful quest: br For there is that behind his heels br Knows neither ruth nor rest. br The fiends in hell have flung the dice; br The destinies depend br On feet that run for fearful price, br And fangs that gape to rend; br And still the footsteps of his Vice br Pursue him to the end:— br The feet of his incarnate Vice br Shall dog him to the end.