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Lay on the woman's arm, its little hand
Stretch'd on her bosom.

Mutely questioning,
The Maid gazed wildly at the living wretch.
He, his head feebly turning, on the group
Look'd with a vacant stare, and his eye spoke
The drowsy calm that steals on worn-out anguish.
She shudder'd: but, each vainer pang subdued,
Quick disentangling from the foremost horse
The rustic bands, with difficulty and toil
The stiff, crampt team forced homeward. There arrived
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 hov'ring spirits of his Wife and Babes
Hail him immortal! Yet amid his pangs,
With interruptions long from ghastly throes,
His voice had falter'd out this simple tale.

The Village, where he dwelt an Husbandman,
By sudden inroad had been seiz'd and fired
Late on the yester-evening. With his wife
And little ones he hurried his escape.

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