Page:Thirty poems (IA thirtypoems00bryarich).pdf/208

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POEMS.
With gentle chidings ready on their lips,And marked that deathlike sleep, and heard the taleOf the snow-maiden, mortal anguish fellUpon their hearts, and bitter words of griefAnd blame were uttered: "Cruel, cruel one,To tempt our daughter thus, and cruel we,Who suffered her to wander forth aloneIn this fierce cold." They lifted the dear child,And bore her home and chafed her tender limbs,And strove, by all the simple arts they knew,To make the chilled blood move, and win the breathBack to her bosom; fruitlessly they strove.The little maid was dead. In blank despairThey stood, and gazed at her who never moreShould look on them. "Why die we not with her?"They said; "without her life is bitterness."
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