William Wordsworth

Guilt And Sorrow

Incidents Upon Salisbury Plain

I A TRAVELLER on the skirt of Sarum's Plain Pursued his vagrant way, with feet half bare; Stooping his gait, but not as if to gain Help from the staff he bore; for mien and air Were hardy, though his cheek seemed worn with care Both of the time to come, and time long fled: Down fell in straggling locks his thin grey hair; A coat he wore of military red But faded, and stuck o'er with many a patch and shred. II While thus he journeyed, step by step led on, He saw and passed a stately inn, full sure That welcome in such house for him was none. No board inscribed the needy to allure Hung there, no bush proclaimed to old and poor And desolate, "Here you will find a friend!" The pendent grapes glittered above the door;-- On he must pace, perchance 'till night descend, Where'er the dreary roads their bare white lines extend. III The gathering clouds grow red with stormy fire, In streaks diverging wide and mounting high; That inn he long had passed; the distant spire, Which oft as he looked back had fixed his eye, Was lost, though still he looked, in the blank sky. Perplexed and comfortless he gazed around, And scarce could any trace of man descry, Save cornfields stretched and stretching without bound; But where the sower dwelt was nowhere to be found. IV No tree was there, no meadow's pleasant green, No brook to wet his lip or soothe his ear; Long files of corn-stacks here and there were seen, But not one dwelling-place his heart to cheer. Some labourer, thought he, may perchance be near; And so he sent a feeble shout--in vain; No voice made answer, he could only hear Winds rustling over plots of unripe grain, Or whistling thro' thin grass along the unfurrowed plain. V Long had he fancied each successive slope Concealed some cottage, whither he might turn And rest; but now along heaven's darkening cope The crows rushed by in eddies, homeward borne. Thus warned he sought some shepherd's spreading thorn Or hovel from the storm to shield his head, But sought in vain; for now, all wild, forlorn, And vacant, a huge waste around him spread; The wet cold ground, he feared, must be his only bed. VI And be it so--for to the chill night shower And the sharp wind his head he oft hath bared; A Sailor he, who many a wretched hour Hath told; for, landing after labour hard, Full long endured in hope of just reward, He to an armed fleet was forced away By seamen, who perhaps themselves had shared Like fate; was hurried off, a helpless prey, 'Gainst all that in 'his' heart, or theirs perhaps, said nay. VII For years the work of carnage did not cease, And death's dire aspect daily he surveyed, Death's minister; then came his glad release, And hope returned, and pleasure fondly made Her dwelling in his dreams. By Fancy's aid The happy husband flies, his arms to throw Round his wife's neck; the prize of victory laid In her full lap, he sees such sweet tears flow As if thenceforth nor pain nor trouble she could know. VIII Vain hope! for frand took all that he had earned. The lion roars and gluts his tawny brood Even in the desert's heart; but he, returned, Bears not to those he loves their needful food. His home approaching, but in such a mood That from his sight his children might have run. He met a traveller, robbed him, shed his blood; And when the miserable work was done He fled, a vagrant since, the murderer's fate to shun. IX From that day forth no place to him could be So lonely, but that thence might come a pang Brought from without to inward misery. Now, as he plodded on, with sullen clang A sound of chains along the desert rang; He looked, and saw upon a gibbet high A human body that in irons swang, Uplifted by the tempest whirling by; And, hovering, round it often did a raven fly. X It was a spectacle which none might view, In spot so savage, but with shuddering pain; Nor only did for him at once renew All he had feared from man, but roused a train Of the mind's phantoms, horrible as vain. The stones, as if to cover him from day, Rolled at his back along the living plain; He fell, and without sense or motion lay; But, when the trance was gone, feebly pursued his way. XI As one whose brain habitual phrensy fires Owes to the fit in which his soul hath tossed Profounder quiet, when the fit retires, Even so the dire phantasma which had crossed His sense, in sudden vacancy quite lost, Left his mind still as a deep evening stream. Nor, if accosted now, in thought engrossed, Moody, or inly troubled, would he seem To traveller who might talk of any casual theme. XII Hurtle the clouds in deeper darkness piled, Gone is the raven timely rest to seek; He seemed the only creature in the wild On whom the elements their rage might wreak; Save that the bustard, of those regions bleak Shy tenant, seeing by the uncertain light A man there wandering, gave a mournful shriek, And half upon the ground, with strange affright, Forced hard against the wind a thick unwieldy flight. XIII All, all was cheerless to the horizon's bound; The weary eye--which, wheresoe'er it strays, Marks nothing but the red sun's setting round, Or on the earth strange lines, in former days Left by gigantic arms--at length surveys What seems an antique castle spreading wide; Hoary and naked are its walls, and raise Their brow sublime: in shelter there to bide He turned, while rain poured down smoking on every side. XIV Pile of Stone-henge! so proud to hint yet keep Thy secrets, thou that lov'st to stand and hear The Plain resounding to the whirlwind's sweep, Inmate of lonesome Nature's endless year; Even if thou saw'st the giant wicker rear For sacrifice its throngs of living men, Before thy face did ever wretch appear, Who in his heart had groaned with deadlier pain Than he who, tempest-driven, thy shelter now would gain. XV Within that fabric of mysterious form, Winds met in conflict, each by turns supreme; And, from the perilous ground dislodged, through storm And rain he wildered on, no moon to stream From gulf of parting clouds one friendly beam, Nor any friendly sound his footsteps led; Once did the lightning's faint disastrous gleam Disclose a naked guide-post's double head, Sight which tho' lost at once a gleam of pleasure shed. XVI No swinging sign-board creaked from cottage elm To stay his steps with faintness overcome; 'Twas dark and void as ocean's watery realm Roaring with storms beneath night's starless gloom; No gipsy cowered o'er fire of furze or broom; No labourer watched his red kiln glaring bright, Nor taper glimmered dim from sick man's room; Along the waste no line of mournful light From lamp of lonely toll-gate streamed athwart the night. XVII At length, though hid in clouds, the moon arose; The downs were visible--and now revealed A structure stands, which two bare slopes enclose. It was a spot, where, ancient vows fulfilled, Kind pious hands did to the Virgin build A lonely Spital, the belated swain From the night terrors of that waste to shield: But there no human being could remain, And now the walls are named the "Dead House" of the plain. XVIII Though he had little cause to love the abode Of man, or covet sight of mortal face, Yet when faint beams of light that ruin showed, How glad he was at length to find some trace Of human shelter in that dreary place. Till to his flock the early shepherd goes, Here shall much-needed sleep his frame embrace. In a dry nook where fern the floor bestrows He lays his stiffened limbs,--his eyes begin to close; XIX When hearing a deep sigh, that seemed to come From one who mourned in sleep, he raised his head, And saw a woman in the naked room Outstretched, and turning on a restless bed: The moon a wan dead light around her shed. He waked her--spake in tone that would not fail, He hoped, to calm her mind; but ill he sped, For of that ruin she had heard a tale Which now with freezing thoughts did all her powers assail; XX Had heard of one who, forced from storms to shroud, Felt the loose walls of this decayed Retreat Rock to incessant neighings shrill and loud, While his horse pawed the floor with furious heat; Till on a stone, that sparkled to his feet, Struck, and still struck again, the troubled horse: The man half raised the stone with pain and sweat, Half raised, for well his arm might lose its force Disclosing the grim head of a late murdered corse. XXI Such tale of this lone mansion she had learned And, when that shape, with eyes in sleep half drowned, By the moon's sullen lamp she first discerned, Cold stony horror all her senses bound. Her he addressed in words of cheering sound; Recovering heart, like answer did she make; And well it was that, of the corse there found, In converse that ensued she nothing spake; She knew not what dire pangs in him such tale could wake. XXII But soon his voice and words of kind intent Banished that dismal thought; and now the wind In fainter howlings told its 'rage' was spent: Meanwhile discourse ensued of various kind, Which by degrees a confidence of mind And mutual interest failed not to create. And, to a natural sympathy resigned, In that forsaken building where they sate The Woman thus retraced her own untoward fate. XXIII "By Derwent's side my father dwelt--a man Of virtuous life, by pious parents bred; And I believe that, soon as I began To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed, And in his hearing there my prayers I said: And afterwards, by my good father taught, I read, and loved the books in which I read; For books in every neighbouring house I sought, And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought. XXIV "A little croft we owned--a plot of corn, A garden stored with peas, and mint, and thyme, And flowers for posies, oft on Sunday morn Plucked while the church bells rang their earliest chime. Can I forget our freaks at shearing time! My hen's rich nest through long grass scarce espied; The cowslip-gathering in June's dewy prime; The swans that with white chests upreared in pride Rushing and racing came to meet me at the water-side. XXV "The staff I well remember which upbore The bending body of my active sire; His seat beneath the honied sycamore Where the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire; When market-morning came, the neat attire With which, though bent on haste, myself I decked; Our watchful house-dog, that would tease and tire The stranger till its barking-fit I checked; The red-breast, known for years, which at my casement pecked. XXVI "The suns of twenty summers danced along,-- Too little marked how fast they rolled away: But, through severe mischance and cruel wrong, My father's substance fell into decay: We toiled and struggled, hoping for a day When Fortune might put on a kinder look; But vain were wishes, efforts vain as they; He from his old hereditary nook Must part; the summons came;--our final leave we took. XXVII "It was indeed a miserable hour When, from the last hill-top, my sire surveyed, Peering above the trees, the steeple tower That on his marriage day sweet music made! Tilt then, he hoped his bones might there be laid Close by my mother in their native bowers: Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed;-- I could not pray:--through tears that fell in showers Glimmered our dear-loved home, alas! no longer ours! XXVIII "There was a Youth whom I had loved so long, That when I loved him not I cannot say: 'Mid the green mountains many a thoughtless song We two had sung, like gladsome birds in May; When we began to tire of childish play, We seemed still more and more to prize each other; We talked of marriage and our marriage day; And I in truth did love him like a brother, For never could I hope to meet with such another. XXIX "Two years were passed since to a distant town He had repaired to ply a gainful trade: What tears of bitter grief, till then unknown! What tender vows, our last sad kiss delayed! To him we turned:--we had no other aid: Like one revived, upon his neck I wept; And her whom he had loved in joy, he said, He well could love in grief; his faith he kept; And in a quiet home once more my father slept. XXX "We lived in peace and comfort; and were blest With daily bread, by constant toil supplied. Three lovely babes had lain upon my breast; And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed, And knew not why. My happy father died, When threatened war reduced the children's meal: Thrice happy! that for him the grave could hide The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel, And tears that flowed for ills which patience might not heal. XXXI "'Twas a hard change; an evil time was come; We had no hope, and no relief could gain: But soon, with proud parade, the noisy drum Beat round to clear the streets of want and pain. My husband's arms now only served to strain Me and his children hungering in his view; In such dismay my prayers and tears were vain: To join those miserable men he flew, And now to the sea-coast, with numbers more, we drew. XXXII "There were we long neglected, and we bore Much sorrow ere the fleet its anchor weighed; Green fields before us, and our native shore, We breathed a pestilential air, that made Ravage for which no knell was heard. We prayed For our departure; wished and wished--nor knew, 'Mid that long sickness and those hopes delayed, That happier days we never more must view. The parting signal streamed--at last the land withdrew. XXXIII "But the calm summer season now was past. On as we drove, the equinoctial deep Ran mountains high before the howling blast, And many perished in the whirlwind's sweep. We gazed with terror on their gloomy sleep, Untaught that soon such anguish must ensue, Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap, That we the mercy of the waves should rue: We reached the western world, a poor devoted crew. XXXIV "The pains and plagues that on our heads came down, Disease and famine, agony and fear, In wood or wilderness, in camp or town, It would unman the firmest heart to hear. All perished--all in one remorseless year, Husband and children! one by one, by sword And ravenous plague, all perished: every tear Dried up, despairing, desolate, on board A British ship I waked, as from a trance restored." XXXV Here paused she of all present thought forlorn, Nor voice nor sound, that moment's pain expressed, Yet Nature, with excess of grief o'erborne, From her full eyes their watery load released. He too was mute; and, ere her weeping ceased, He rose, and to the ruin's portal went, And saw the dawn opening the silvery east With rays of promise, north and southward sent; And soon with crimson fire kindled the firmament. XXXVI "O come," he cried, "come, after weary night Of such rough storm, this happy change to view." So forth she came, and eastward looked; the sight Over her brow like dawn of gladness threw; Upon her cheek, to which its youthful hue Seemed to return, dried the last lingering tear, And from her grateful heart a fresh one drew: The whilst her comrade to her pensive cheer Tempered fit words of hope; and the lark warbled near. XXXVII They looked and saw a lengthening road, and wain That rang down a bare slope not far remote: The barrows glistered bright with drops of rain, Whistled the waggoner with merry note, The cock far off sounded his clarion throat; But town, or farm, or hamlet, none they viewed, Only were told there stood a lonely cot A long mile thence. While thither they pursued Their way, the Woman thus her mournful tale renewed. XXXVIII "Peaceful as this immeasurable plain Is now, by beams of dawning light imprest, In the calm sunshine slept the glittering main; The very ocean hath its hour of rest. I too forgot the heavings of my breast. How quiet 'round me ship and ocean were! As quiet all within me. I was blest, And looked, and fed upon the silent air Until it seemed to bring a joy to my despair. XXXIX "Ah! how unlike those late terrific sleeps, And groans that rage of racking famine spoke; The unburied dead that lay in festering heaps, The breathing pestilence that rose like smoke, The shriek that from the distant battle broke, The mine's dire earthquake, and the pallid host Driven by the bomb's incessant thunderstroke To loathsome vaults, where heart-sick anguish tossed, Hope died, and fear itself in agony was lost! XL "Some mighty gulf of separation past, I seemed transported to another world; A thought resigned with pain, when from the mast The impatient mariner the sail unfurled, And, whistling, called the wind that hardly curled The silent sea. From the sweet thoughts of home And from all hope I was for ever hurled. For me--farthest from earthly port to roam Was best, could I but shun the spot where man might come. XLI "And oft I thought (my fancy was so strong) That I, at last, a resting-place had found; 'Here will I dwell,' said I, 'my whole life long, Roaming the illimitable waters round; Here will I live, of all but heaven disowned, And end my days upon the peaceful flood.'-- To break my dream the vessel reached its bound; And homeless near a thousand homes I stood, And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food. XLII "No help I sought; in sorrow turned adrift, Was hopeless, as if cast on some bare rock; Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift, Nor raised my hand at any door to knock. I lay where, with his drowsy mates, the cock From the cross-timber of an out-house hung: Dismally tolled, that night, the city clock! At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely stung, Nor to the beggar's language could I fit my tongue. XLIII "So passed a second day; and, when the third Was come, I tried in vain the crowd's resort. --In deep despair, by frightful wishes stirred, Near the sea-side I reached a ruined fort; There, pains which nature could no more support, With blindness linked, did on my vitals fall; And, after many interruptions short Of hideous sense, I sank, nor step could crawl: Unsought for was the help that did my life recall. XLIV "Borne to a hospital, I lay with brain Drowsy and weak, and shattered memory; I heard my neighbours in their beds complain Of many things which never troubled me-- Of feet still bustling round with busy glee, Of looks where common kindness had no part, Of service done with cold formality, Fretting the fever round the languid heart, And groans which, as they said, might make a dead man start. XLV "These things just served to stir the slumbering sense, Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised. With strength did memory return; and, thence Dismissed, again on open day I gazed, At houses, men, and common light, amazed. The lanes I sought, and, as the sun retired, Came where beneath the trees a faggot blazed, The travellers saw me weep, my fate inquired, And gave me food--and rest, more welcome, more desired. XLVI "Rough potters seemed they, trading soberly With panniered asses driven from door to door; But life of happier sort set forth to me, And other joys my fancy to allure-- The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor In barn uplighted; and companions boon, Well met from far with revelry secure Among the forest glades, while jocund June Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon. XLVII "But ill they suited me--those journeys dark O'er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch! To charm the surly house-dog's faithful bark, Or hang on tip-toe at the lifted latch. The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match, The black disguise, the warning whistle shrill, And ear still busy on its nightly watch, Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill: Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were brooding still. XLVIII "What could I do, unaided and unblest? My father! gone was every friend of thine: And kindred of dead husband are at best Small help; and, after marriage such as mine, With little kindness would to me incline. Nor was I then for toil or service fit; My deep-drawn sighs no effort could confine; In open air forgetful would I sit Whole hours, with idle arms in moping sorrow knit. XLIX "The roads I paced, I loitered through the fields; Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused. Trusted my life to what chance bounty yields, Now coldly given, now utterly refused. The ground I for my bed have often used: But what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth, Is that I have my inner self abused, Foregone the home delight of constant truth, And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless youth. L "Through tears the rising sun I oft have viewed, Through tears have seen him towards that world descend Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude: Three years a wanderer now my course I bend-- Oh! tell me whither--for no earthly friend Have I."--She ceased, and weeping turned away; As if because her tale was at an end, She wept; because she had no more to say Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay. LI True sympathy the Sailor's looks expressed, His looks--for pondering he was mute the while. Of social Order's care for wretchedness, Of Time's sure help to calm and reconcile, Joy's second spring and Hope's long-treasured smile, 'Twas not for 'him' to speak--a man so tried, Yet, to relieve her heart, in friendly style Proverbial words of comfort he applied, And not in vain, while they went pacing side by side. LII Ere long, from heaps of turf, before their sight, Together smoking in the sun's slant beam, Rise various wreaths that into one unite Which high and higher mounts with silver gleam: Fair spectacle,---but instantly a scream Thence bursting shrill did all remark prevent; They paused, and heard a hoarser voice blaspheme, And female cries. Their course they thither bent, And met a man who foamed with anger vehement, LIII A woman stood with quivering lips and pale, And, pointing to a little child that lay Stretched on the ground, began a piteous tale; How in a simple freak of thoughtless play He had provoked his father, who straightway, As if each blow were deadlier than the last, Struck the poor innocent. Pallid with dismay The Soldier's Widow heard and stood aghast; And stern looks on the man her grey-haired Comrade cast. LIV His voice with indignation rising high Such further deed in manhood's name forbade; The peasant, wild in passion, made reply With bitter insult and revilings sad; Asked him in scorn what business there he had; What kind of plunder he was hunting now; The gallows would one day of him be glad;-- Though inward anguish damped the Sailor's brow, Yet calm he seemed as thoughts so poignant would allow. LV Softly he stroked the child, who lay outstretched With face to earth; and, as the boy turned round His battered head, a groan the Sailor fetched As if he saw--there and upon that ground-- Strange repetition of the deadly wound He had himself inflicted. Through his brain At once the griding iron passage found; Deluge of tender thoughts then rushed amain, Nor could his sunken eyes the starting tear restrain. LVI Within himself he said--What hearts have we! The blessing this a father gives his child! Yet happy thou, poor boy! compared with me, Suffering not doing ill--fate far more mild. The stranger's looks and tears of wrath beguiled The father, and relenting thoughts awoke; He kissed his son--so all was reconciled. Then, with a voice which inward trouble broke Ere to his lips it came, the Sailor them bespoke. LVII "Bad is the world, and hard is the world's law Even for the man who wears the warmest fleece; Much need have ye that time more closely draw The bond of nature, all unkindness cease, And that among so few there still be peace: Else can ye hope but with such numerous foes Your pains shall ever with your years increase?"-- While from his heart the appropriate lesson flows, A correspondent calm stole gently o'er his woes. LVIII Forthwith the pair passed on; and down they look Into a narrow valley's pleasant scene Where wreaths of vapour tracked a winding brook, That babbled on through groves and meadows green; A low-roofed house peeped out the trees between; The dripping groves resound with cheerful lays, And melancholy lowings intervene Of scattered herds, that in the meadow graze, Some amid lingering shade, some touched by the sun's rays. LIX They saw and heard, and, winding with the road, Down a thick wood, they dropt into the vale; Comfort, by prouder mansions unbestowed, Their wearied frames, she hoped, would soon regale. Erelong they reached that cottage in the dale: It was a rustic inn;--the board was spread, The milk-maid followed with her brimming pail, And lustily the master carved the bread, Kindly the housewife pressed, and they in comfort fed. LX Their breakfast done, the pair, though loth, must part; Wanderers whose course no longer now agrees. She rose and bade farewell! and, while her heart Struggled with tears nor could its sorrow ease, She left him there; for, clustering round his knees, With his oak-staff the cottage children played; And soon she reached a spot o'erhung with trees And banks of ragged earth; beneath the shade Across the pebbly road a little runnel strayed. LXI A cart and horse beside the rivulet stood; Chequering the canvas roof the sunbeams shone. She saw the carman bend to scoop the flood As the wain fronted her,--wherein lay one, A pale-faced Woman, in disease far gone. The carman wet her lips as well behoved; Bed under her lean body there was none, Though even to die near one she most had loved She could not of herself those wasted limbs have moved. LXII The Soldier's Widow learned with honest pain And homefelt force of sympathy sincere, Why thus that worn-out wretch must there sustain The jolting road and morning air severe. The wain pursued its way; and following near In pure compassion she her steps retraced Far as the cottage. "A sad sight is here," She cried aloud; and forth ran out in haste The friends whom she had left but a few minutes past. LXIII While to the door with eager speed they ran, From her bare straw the Woman half upraised Her bony visage--gaunt and deadly wan; No pity asking, on the group she gazed With a dim eye, distracted and amazed; Then sank upon her straw with feeble moan. Fervently cried the housewife--"God be praised, I have a house that I can call my own; Nor shall she perish there, untended and alone!" LXIV So in they bear her to the chimney seat, And busily, though yet with fear, untie Her garments, and, to warm her icy feet And chafe her temples, careful hands apply. Nature reviving, with a deep-drawn sigh She strove, and not in vain, her head to rear; Then said--"I thank you all; if I must die, The God in heaven my prayers for you will hear; Till now I did not think my end had been so near. LXV "Barred every comfort labour could procure, Suffering what no endurance could assuage, I was compelled to seek my father's door, Though loth to be a burthen on his age. But sickness stopped me in an early stage Of my sad journey; and within the wain They placed me--there to end life's pilgrimage, Unless beneath your roof I may remain; For I shall never see my father's door again. LXVI "My life, Heaven knows, hath long been burthensome; But, if I have not meekly suffered, meek May my end be! Soon will this voice be dumb: Should child of mine e'er wander hither, speak Of me, say that the worm is on my cheek.-- Torn from our hut, that stood beside the sea Near Portland lighthouse in a lonesome creek, My husband served in sad captivity On shipboard, bound till peace or death should set him free. LXVII "A sailor's wife I knew a widow's cares, Yet two sweet little ones partook my bed; Hope cheered my dreams, and to my daily prayers Our heavenly Father granted each day's bread; Till one was found by stroke of violence dead, Whose body near our cottage chanced to lie; A dire suspicion drove us from our shed; In vain to find a friendly face we try, Nor could we live together those poor boys and I; LXVIII "For evil tongues made oath how on that day My husband lurked about the neighbourhood; Now he had fled, and whither none could say, And 'he' had done the deed in the dark wood-- Near his own home!--but he was mild and good; Never on earth was gentler creature seen; He'd not have robbed the raven of its food. My husband's lovingkindness stood between Me and all worldly harms and wrongs however keen." LXIX Alas! the thing she told with labouring breath The Sailor knew too well. That wickedness His hand had wrought; and when, in the hour of death, He saw his Wife's lips move his name to bless With her last words, unable to suppress His anguish, with his heart he ceased to strive; And, weeping loud in this extreme distress, He cried--"Do pity me! That thou shouldst live I neither ask nor wish--forgive me, but forgive!" LXX To tell the change that Voice within her wrought Nature by sign or sound made no essay; A sudden joy surprised expiring thought, And every mortal pang dissolved away. Borne gently to a bed, in death she lay; Yet still while over her the husband bent, A look was in her face which seemed to say, "Be blest; by sight of thee from heaven was sent Peace to my parting soul, the fulness of content." LXXI 'She' slept in peace,--his pulses throbbed and stopped, Breathless he gazed upon her face,--then took Her hand in his, and raised it, but both dropped, When on his own he cast a rueful look. His ears were never silent; sleep forsook His burning eyelids stretched and stiff as lead; All night from time to time under him shook The floor as he lay shuddering on his bed; And oft he groaned aloud, "O God, that I were dead!" LXXII The Soldier's Widow lingered in the cot, And, when he rose, he thanked her pious care Through which his Wife, to that kind shelter brought, Died in his arms; and with those thanks a prayer He breathed for her, and for that merciful pair. The corse interred, not one hour heremained Beneath their roof, but to the open air A burthen, now with fortitude sustained, He bore within a breast where dreadful quiet reigned. LXXIII Confirmed of purpose, fearlessly prepared For act and suffering, to the city straight He journeyed, and forthwith his crime declared: "And from your doom," he added, "now I wait, Nor let it linger long, the murderer's fate." Not ineffectual was that piteous claim: "O welcome sentence which will end though late," He said, "the pangs that to my conscience came Out of that deed. My trust, Saviour! is in thy name!" LXXIV His fate was pitied. Him in iron case (Reader, forgive the intolerable thought) They hung not:--no one on 'his' form or face Could gaze, as on a show by idlers sought; No kindred sufferer, to his death-place brought By lawless curiosity or chance, When into storm the evening sky is wrought, Upon his swinging corse an eye can glance, And drop, as he once dropped, in miserable trance.

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