How many are her penetential tears in such a horrid situation? She calls, and calls again, upon her great Creator, "O Lord, rebuke me not in thy fury, nor chastise me in thy wrath; for who can stand before the face of thy indignation?" And thus surrounded with all these dismal and heart-piercing sensations, without a friend to comfort, or the still more invaluable consolations of a dying Christian; her every sense is racked with horror, and little unlike the infernal regions is her wretched situation.
Whilst her associates in vice are revelling in drunkenness, in order to banish from their reflections all ideas of the horrid scene, and thus she lies, "Groaning out the poor remains of life," her limbs bathed in sweat, and struggling with convulsive throws, pains insupportable throbbing in every pulse, and innumerable darts of agony transfixing her conscience.
"Raves round the walls of her clay tenement,
"Runs to each avenue and shrieks for help,
