The peopled coach rolled down the dusty road.
The shining cattle through the pasture grazed;
And all the air seemed trembling with a load
Of melody, by birds and children raised:
But now, a voice—a groan—he started—stood amazed.
Hark! was’t the wind which eddied round the place,
Or mournful trees by wailing tempests tossed?
Or was’t a moan from that pale, wasted face
Which from the bed gleamed like a sleeping ghost?
Or Hunger worrying Slumber from his post