Had filled with plenty, and possessed in peace,
This lonely cottage. At the door he stood,
And whistled many a snatch of merry tunes
That had no mirth in them; or with his knife
Carved uncouth figures on the heads of sticks-
Then, not less idly, sought, through every nook
In house or garden, any casual work

Of use or ornament; and with a strange,
Amusing, yet uneasy novelty,

He mingled, where he might, the various tasks
Of summer, autumn, winter, and of spring.
But this endured not; his good humour soon
Became a weight in which no pleasure was:
And poverty brought on a petted mood
And a sore temper: day by day he drooped,
And he would leave his work-and to the town
Would turn, without an errand, his slack steps;
Or wander here and there among the fields.
One while he would speak lightly of his babes,
And with a cruel tongue: at other times
He tossed them with a false unnatural joy:
And 'twas a rueful thing to see the looks
Of the poor innocent children. Every smile,'
Said Margaret to me, here beneath these trees,
6 Made my heart bleed.'"'

At this the Wanderer paused;
And, looking up to those enormous elms,
He said, "Tis now the hour of deepest noon.
At this still season of repose and peace,

This hour when all things which are not at rest
Are cheerful; while this multitude of flies
Is filling all the air with melody;

Why should a tear be in an old Man's eye?
Why should we thus, with an untoward mind,
And in the weakness of humanity,

From natural wisdom turn our hearts away,
To natural comfort shut our eyes and ears,
And, feeding on disquiet, thus disturb

The calm of nature with our restless thoughts?"

He spake with somewhat of a solemn tone :
But, when he ended, there was in his face
Such easy cheerfulness, a look so mild,
That for a little time it stole away
All recollection, and that simple tale
Passed from my mind like a forgotten sound.
A while on trivial things we held discourse,
To me soon tasteless. In my own despite,
I thought of that poor Woman as of one
Whom I had known and loved. He had re
hearsed

Her homely tale with such familiar power,
With such an active countenance, an eye
So busy, that the things of which he spake
Seemed present; and, attention now relaxed,
A heart-felt chillness crept along my veins.
I rose; and, having left the breezy shade,
Stood drinking comfort from the warmer sun,

That had not cheered me long-ere, looking

round

Upon that tranquil ruin, I returned,

And begged of the old Man that, for my sake, He would resume his story.

He replied,

"It were a wantonness, and would demand
Severe reproof, if we were men whose hearts
Could hold vain dalliance with the misery
Even of the dead; contented thence to draw
A momentary pleasure, never marked
By reason, barren of all future good.

But we have known that there is often found
In mournful thoughts, and always might be
found,

A power to virtue friendly; were't not so,

I am a dreamer among men, indeed

An idle dreamer! 'Tis a common tale,
An ordinary sorrow of man's life,

A tale of silent suffering, hardly clothed
In bodily form.-But without further bidding
I will proceed.

"While thus it fared with them, To whom this cottage, till those hapless years, Had been a blessed home, it was my chance To travel in a country far remote ;

And when these lofty elms once more appeared, What pleasant expectations lured me on

O'er the flat Common !-With quick step 1

reached

The threshold, lifted with light hand the latch;
But, when I entered, Margaret looked at me
A little while; then turned her head away
Speechless, and, sitting down upon a chair,
Wept bitterly. I wist not what to do,

Nor how to speak to her. Poor Wretch! at
last

She rose from off her seat, and then,-O Sir!
I cannot tell how she pronounced my name :-
With fervent love, and with a face of grief
Unutterably helpless, and a look

That seemed to cling upon me, she enquired
If I had seen her husband. As she spake,
A strange surprise and fear came to my heart,
Nor had I power to answer ere she told
That he had disappeared-not two months
gone.

He left his house: two wretched days had past,
And on the third, as wistfully she raised
Her head from off her pillow, to look forth
Like one in trouble, for returning light,
Within her chamber-casement she espied
A folded paper, lying as if placed

To meet her waking eyes. This tremblingly
She opened-found no writing, but beheld
Pieces of money carefully enclosed,
Silver and gold. 'I shuddered at the sight,'
Said Margaret, for I knew it was his hand

That must have placed it there; and ere that

day

Was ended, that long anxious day, I learned
From one who by my husband had been sent
With the sad news, that he had joined a troop
Of soldiers, going to a distant land.

-He left me thus he could not gather heart
To take a farewell of me; for he feared
That I should follow with my babes, and sink
Beneath the misery of that wandering life.'

"This tale did Margaret tell with many tears: And, when she ended, I had little power To give her comfort, and was glad to take Such words of hope from her own mouth as served

To cheer us both. But long we had not talked
Ere we built up a pile of better thoughts,
And with a brighter eye she looked around
As if she had been shedding tears of joy.
We parted. 'Twas the time of early spring;
I left her busy with her garden tools;
And well remember, o'er that fence she look'd,
And, while I paced along the foot-way path,
Called out, and sent a blessing after me,
With tender cheerfulness; and with a voice
That seemed the very sound of happy thoughts

"I roved o'er many a hill and many a dale, With my accustomed load; in heat and cold.