Page:Sibylline Leaves (Coleridge).djvu/313

 Lay on the woman's arm, its little hand Stretch'd on her bosom.

Mutely questioning, The Maid gazed wildly at the living wretch. He, his head feebly turning, on the group Look'd with a vacant stare, and his eye spoke The drowsy calm that steals on worn-out anguish. She shudder'd: but, each vainer pang subdued, Quick disentangling from the foremost horse The rustic bands, with difficulty and toil The stiff, crampt team forced homeward. There arrived Anxiously tends him she with healing herbs, And weeps and prays—but the numb power of Death Spreads o'er his limbs; and ere the noon-tide hour, The hov'ring spirits of his Wife and Babes Hail him immortal! Yet amid his pangs, With interruptions long from ghastly throes, His voice had falter'd out this simple tale.

The Village, where he dwelt an Husbandman, By sudden inroad had been seiz'd and fired Late on the yester-evening. With his wife And little ones he hurried his escape.