So was He framed; and such his course of life with no appendage but a staff,

Who now,

The prized memorial of relinquished toils,

Upon that cottage bench reposed his lumbs, Screened from the sun Supine the Wanderer lay,

His eyes as if in drowsiness half shut,
The shadows of the breezy elms above
Dappling his face. He had not heard the sound
Of my approaching steps, and in the shade
Unnoticed did I stand, some minutes' space.
At length I hailed him, seeing that his hat
Was moist with water-drops, as if the brim
Had newly scooped a running stream. He rose,
And ere our lively greeting into peace
Had settled, ""Tis," said I, a burning day:
My lips are parched with thirst, but you, it

seems,

66

Have somewhere found relief." He, at the

word,

Pointing towards a sweet-brier, bade me climb The fence where that aspiring shrub looked out Upon the public way. It was a plot

Of garden ground run wild, its matted weeds Marked with the steps of those, whom, as they

passed,

The gooseberry trees that shot in long lank

slips,

Or currants, hanging from their leafless stems In scanty strings, had tempted to o'erleap

The broken wall. I looked around, and there,
Where two tall hedge-rows of thick alder boughs
Joined in a cold damp nook, espied a well
Shrouded with willow-flowers and plumy fern.
My thirst I slaked, and from the cheerless spot
Withdrawing, straightway to the shade returned
Where sate the old Man on the cottage bench;
And, while, beside him, with uncovered head,
I yet was standing, freely to respire,

And cool my temples in the fanning air,
Thus did he speak. "I see around me here
Things which you cannot see: we die, my
Friend,

Nor we alone, but that which each man loved
And prized in his peculiar nook of earth
Dies with him, or is changed; and very soon
Even of the good is no memorial left.
-The Poets, in their elegies and songs
Lamenting the departed, call the groves,
They call upon the hills and streams to mourn,
And senseless rocks; nor idly; for they speak,
In these their invocations, with a voice
Obedient to the strong creative power

Of human passion. Sympathies there are
More tranquil, yet perhaps of kindred birth,
That steal upon the meditative mind,

And grow with thought. Beside yon spring I

stood,

And eyed its waters till we seemed to feel
One sadness, they and I. For them a bond

Of brotherhood is broken: time has been
When, every day, the touch of human hand
Dislodged the natural sleep that binds them up
In mortal stillness; and they ministered
To human comfort. Stooping down to drink,
Upon the slimy foot-stone I espied

The useless fragment of a wooden bowl,
Green with the moss of years, and subject only
To the soft handling of the elements:

There let it lie-how foolish are such thoughts!
Forgive them ;-never-never did my steps
Approach this door but she who dwelt within
A daughter's welcome gave me, and I loved her
As my own child. Oh, Sir! the good die first,
And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust
Burn to the socket. Many a passenger
Hath blessed poor Margaret for her gentle looks,
When she upheld the cool refreshment drawn
From that forsaken spring: and no one came
But he was welcome; no one went away
But that it seemed she loved him. She is dead,
The light extinguished of her lonely hut,
The hut itself abandoned to decay,

And she forgotten in the quiet grave!

"I speak," continued he, "of One whose stock

Of virtues bloomed beneath this lowly roof.
She was a Woman of a steady mind,
Tender and deep in her excess of love;

Not speaking much, pleased rather with the joy
Of her own thoughts: by some especial care
Her temper had been framed, as if to make
A Being, who by adding love to peace
Might live on earth a life of happiness.
Her wedded Partner lacked not on his side
The humble worth that satisfied her heart:
Frugal, affectionate, sober, and withal
Keenly industrious. She with pride would tell
That he was often seated at his loom,
In summer, ere the mower was abroad
Among the dewy grass,-in early spring,
Ere the last star had vanished. They who
passed

At evening, from behind the garden fence
Might hear his busy spade, which he would ply,
After his daily work, until the light

Had failed, and every leaf and flower were lost
In the dark hedges. So their days were spent
In peace and comfort; and a pretty boy
Was their best hope, next to the God in
Heaven.

"Not twenty years ago, but you I think Can scarcely bear it now in mind, there came Two blighting seasons, when the fields were left

With half a harvest. It pleased Heaven to add
A worse affliction in the plague of war;
This happy Land was stricken to the heart!
6

A Wanderer then among the cottages
I, with my freight of winter raiment, saw
The hardships of that season; many rich
Sank down, as in a dream, among the poor;
And of the poor did many cease to be,

And their place knew them not. Meanwhile, abridged

Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled

To numerous self-denials, Margaret

Went struggling on through these calamitous

years

With cheerful hope, until the second autumn, When her life's Helpmate on a sick-bed lay, Smitten with perilous fever. In disease

He lingered long; and when his strength returned,

He found the little he had stored, to meet
The hour of accident or crippling age,
Was all consumed. A second infant now
Was added to the troubles of a time
Laden, for them and all of their degree,
With care and sorrow; shoals of artisans
From ill-requited labour turned adrift
Sought daily bread from public charity,
They, and their wives and children-happier far
Could they have lived as do the little birds
That pick along the hedge-rows, or the kite
That makes her dwelling on the mountain rocks!

"A sad reverse it was for him who long