Page:Poems on Various Subjects - Coleridge (1796).djvu/26

 of tumultuous soul, and haggard eye! Thy wasted form, thy hurried steps I view, On thy cold forehead starts the anguish'd dew: And dreadful was that bosom-rending sigh!

Such were the struggles of the gloomy hour, When, of wither'd brow, Prepar'd the poison's death-cold power: Already to thy lips was rais'd the bowl, When near thee stood meek (Her bosom bare, and wildly pale her cheek) Thy sullen gaze she bade thee roll On scenes that well might melt thy soul; Thy native cot she flash'd upon thy view, Thy native cot, where still, at close of day, smiling sate, and listen'd to thy lay;