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her mien, 170

      And like an haughty huntress of the woods

      She moved: yet sure she was a gentle maid!

      And in each motion her most innocent soul

      Beamed forth so brightly, that who saw would say

      Guilt was a thing impossible in her! 175

      Nor idly would have said — for she had lived

      In this bad World, as in a place of Tombs,

      And touched not the pollutions of the Dead.

      ‘Twas the cold season when the Rustic’s eye

      From the drear desolate whiteness of his fields 180

      Rolls for relief to watch the skiey tints

      And clouds slow-varying their huge imagery;

      When now, as she was wont, the healthful Maid

      Had left her pallet ere one beam of day

      Slanted the fog-smoke. She went forth alone 185

      Urged by the indwelling angel-guide, that oft,

      With dim inexplicable sympathies

      Disquieting the heart, shapes out Man’s course

      To the predoomed adventure. Now the ascent

      She climbs of that steep upland, on whose top 190

      The Pilgrim-man, who long since eve had watched

      The alien shine of unconcerning stars,

      Shouts to himself, there first the Abbey-lights

      Seen in Neufchâtel’s vale; now slopes adown

      The winding sheep-track vale-ward: when, behold 195

      In the first entrance of the level road

      An unattended team! The foremost horse

      Lay with stretched limbs; the others, yet alive

      But stiff and cold, stood motionless, their manes

      Hoar with the frozen night-dews. Dismally 200

      The dark-red dawn now glimmered; but its gleams

      Disclosed no face of man. The maiden paused,

      Then hailed who might be near. No voice replied.

      From the thwart wain at length there reached her ear

      A sound so feeble that it almost seemed 205

      Distant: and feebly, with slow effort pushed,

      A miserable man crept forth: his limbs

      The silent frost had eat, scathing like fire.

      Faint on the shafts he rested. She, meantime,

      Saw crowded close beneath the coverture 210

      A mother and her children — lifeless all,

      Yet lovely! not a lineament was marred —

      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, 215

      Lay on the woman’s arm, its little hand

      Stretched on her bosom.

      Mutely questioning,

      The Maid gazed wildly at the living wretch.

      He, his head feebly turning, on the group

      Looked with a vacant stare, and his eye spoke 220

      The drowsy calm that steals on worn-out anguish.

      She shuddered; but, each vainer pang subdued,

      Quick disentangling from the foremost horse

      The rustic bands, with difficulty and toil

      The stiff cramped team forced homeward. There arrived, 225

      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 noontide hour,

      The hovering spirits of his Wife and Babes

      Hail him immortal! Yet amid his pangs, 230

      With interruptions long from ghastly throes,

      His voice had faltered out this simple tale.

      The Village, where he dwelt an husbandman,

      By sudden inroad had been seized and fired

      Late on the yester-evening. With his wife 235

      And little ones he hurried his escape.

      They saw the neighbouring hamlets flame, they heard

      Uproar and shrieks! and terror-struck drove on

      Through unfrequented roads, a weary way!

      But saw nor house nor cottage. All had quenched 240

      Their evening hearth-fire: for the alarm had spread.

      The air clipt keen, the night was fanged with frost,

      And they provisionless! The weeping wife

      Ill hushed her children’s moans; and still they moaned,

      Till Fright and Cold and Hunger drank their life. 245

      They closed their eyes in sleep, nor knew ‘twas Death.

      He only, lashing his o’erwearied team,

      Gained a sad respite, till beside the base

      Of the high hill his foremost horse dropped dead.

      Then hopeless, strengthless, sick for lack of food, 250

      He crept beneath the coverture, entranced,

      Till wakened by the maiden. — Such his tale.

      Ah! suffering to the height of what was suffered,

      Stung with too keen a sympathy, the Maid

      Brooded with moving lips, mute, startful, dark! 255

      And now her flushed tumultuous features shot

      Such strange vivacity, as fires the eye

      Of Misery fancy-crazed! and now once more

      Naked, and void, and fixed, and all within

      The unquiet silence of confuséd thought 260

      And shapeless feelings. For a mighty hand

      Was strong upon her, till in the heat of soul

      To the high hill-top tracing back her steps,

      Aside the beacon, up whose smouldered stones

      The tender ivy-trails crept thinly, there, 265

      Unconscious of the driving element,

      Yea, swallowed up in the ominous dream, she sate

      Ghastly as broad-eyed Slumber! a dim anguish

      Breathed from her look! and still with pant and sob,

      Inly she toiled to flee, and still subdued, 270

      Felt an inevitable Presence near.

      Thus as she toiled in troublous ecstasy,

      A horror of great darkness wrapt her round,

      And a voice uttered forth unearthly tones,

      Calming her soul,—’O Thou of the Most High 275

      Chosen, whom all the perfected in Heaven

      Behold expectant—’

      [The following fragments were intended to form part of the poem when

      finished.]

      ‘Maid beloved of Heaven!

      (To her the tutelary Power exclaimed)

      Of Chaos the adventurous progeny 280

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