'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 noon-tide 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.