Page:Sibylline Leaves (Coleridge).djvu/312

 The Pilgrim-Man, who long since eve had watch'd The alien shine of unconcerning Stars, Shouts to himself, there first the Abbey-lights Seen in Neufchatel's vale; now slopes adown The winding sheep-track valeward: when, behold In the first entrance of the level road An unattended Team! The foremost horse Lay with stretch'd limbs; the others, yet alive But stiff and cold, stood motionless, their manes Hoar with the frozen night-dews. Dismally The dark-red dawn new glimmer'd; but its gleams Disclosed no face of man. The maiden paused, Then hail'd who might be near. No voice replied. From the thwart wain at length there reach'd her ear A sound so feeble that it almost seem'd Distant—and feebly, with slow effort push'd, A miserable man crept forth: his limbs The silent frost had eat, scathing like fire. Faint on the shafts he rested. She, mean time, Saw crowded close beneath the coverture A mother and her children—lifeless all, Yet lovely! not a lineament was marr'd— Death had put on so slumber-like a form! It was a piteous sight; and one, a babe, The crisp milk frozen on its innocent lips,