As he beheld the Woman lie [112] Breathless and motionless, the mind Of Peter sadly was confused; But, though to such demands unused, And helpless almost as the blind, 1020 He raised her up; and, while he held Her body propped against his knee, The Woman waked--and when she spied The poor Ass standing by her side, She moaned most bitterly. 1025 "Oh! God be praised--my heart's at ease-- For he is dead--I know it well!" --At this she wept a bitter flood; And, in the best way that he could, His tale did Peter tell. 1030 He trembles--he is pale as death; His voice is weak with perturbation; He turns aside his head, he pauses; Poor Peter from a thousand causes, Is crippled sore in his narration. 1035 At length she learned how he espied The Ass in that small meadow-ground; And that her Husband now lay dead, Beside that luckless river's bed In which he had been drowned. 1040 A piercing look the Widow [113] cast Upon the Beast that near her stands; She sees 'tis he, that 'tis the same; She calls the poor Ass by his name, And wrings, and wrings her hands. 1045 "O wretched loss--untimely stroke! If he had died upon his bed! He knew not one forewarning pain; He never will come home again-- Is dead, for ever dead!" 1050 Beside the Woman Peter stands; His heart is opening more and more; A holy sense pervades his mind; He feels what he for human-kind Had never felt before. 1055 At length, by Peter's arm sustained, The Woman rises from the ground-- "Oh, mercy! something must be done, My little Rachel, you must run,-- Some willing neighbour must be found. 1060 "Make haste--my little Rachel--do, The first you meet with--bid him come, Ask him to lend his horse to-night, And this good Man, whom Heaven requite, Will help to bring the body home." 1065 Away goes Rachel weeping loud;-- An Infant, waked by her distress, Makes in the house a piteous cry; And Peter hears the Mother sigh, "Seven are they, and all fatherless!" 1070 And now is Peter taught to feel That man's heart is a holy thing; And Nature, through a world of death, Breathes into him a second breath, More searching than the breath of spring. 1075 Upon a stone the Woman sits In agony of silent grief-- From his own thoughts did Peter start; He longs to press her to his heart, From love that cannot find relief. 1080 But roused, as if through every limb Had past a sudden shock of dread, The Mother o'er the threshold flies, And up the cottage stairs [114] she hies, And on the pillow lays [115] her burning head. 1085