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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 quench'd
Their evening hearth-fire: for the alarm had spread.
The air clipt keen, the night was fang'd with frost,
And they provisionless! The weeping wife
Ill-hush'd her children's moans; and still they moan'd,
Till Fright and Cold and Hunger drank their life.
They closed their eyes in sleep, nor knew 'twas Death.
He only, lashing his o'er-wearied team,
Gained a sad respite, till beside the base
Of the high hill his foremost horse dropt dead.
Then hopeless, strengthless, sick for lack of food,
He crept beneath the coverture, entranced,
Till waken'd 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!
And now her flush'd tumultuous features shot
Such strange vivacity, as fires the eye
Of misery Fancy-craz'd! and now once more
Naked, and void, and fix'd, and all, within,
The unquiet silence of confused thought
