Had been piled up against the corner panes In seemly order, now, with straggling leaves Lay scattered here and there, open or shut, As they had chanced to fall. Her infant Babe Had from its Mother caught the trick of grief, And sighed among its playthings. Once again I turned towards the garden gate, and saw, More plainly still, that poverty and grief Were now come nearer to her: weeds defaced The hardened soil, and knots of withered grass: No ridges there appeared of clear black mold, No winter greenness; of her herbs and flowers, It seemed the better part were gnawed away Or trampled into earth; a chain of straw, Which had been twined about the slender stem Of a young apple-tree, lay at its root, The bark was nibbled round by truant sheep. -Margaret stood near, her infant in her arms, And, noting that my eye was on the tree, She said, 'I fear it will be dead and gone Ere Robert come again.' Towards the house Together we returned; and she enquired If I had any hope :-but for her babe And for her little orphan boy, she said, She had no wish to live, that she must die Of sorrow. Yet I saw the idle loom
Still in its place; his sunday garments hung Upon the self-same nail; his very staff Stood undisturbed behind the door.
In bleak December, I retraced this way, She told me that her little babe was dead, And she was left alone. She now, released From her maternal care, had taken up The employment common through these wilds, and gained,
By spinning hemp, a pittance for herself; And for this end had hired a neighbour's boy To give her needful help. That very time Most willingly she put her work aside, And walked with me along the miry road, Heedless how far; and in such piteous sort That any heart had ached to hear her, begged That, wheresoe'er I went, I still would ask For him whom she had lost. We parted then- Our final parting; for from that time forth Did many seasons pass ere I returned Into this tract again.
From their first separation, nine long years,
She lingered in unquiet widowhood;
A Wife and Widow. Needs must it have been A sore heart-wasting' I have heard, my Friend, That in yon arbour oftentimes she sate Alone, through half the vacant sabbath day; And, if a dog passed by, she still would quit The shade, and look abroad. On this old bench For hours she sate; and evermore her eye
Was busy in the distance, shaping things That made her heart beat quick. You see that
Now faint, the grass has crept o'er its grey
There, to and fro, she paced through many a
Of the warm summer, from a belt of hemp That girt her waist, spinning the long drawn thread
With backward steps. Yet ever as there passed A man whose garments showed the soldier's
Or crippled mendicant in sailor's garb,
The little child who sate to turn the wheel Ceased from his task; and she with faltering voice
Made many a fond enquiry; and when they, Whose presence gave no comfort, were gone by, Her heart was still more sad. And by yon gate, That bars the traveller's road, she often stood, And when a stranger horseman came, the latch Would lift, and in his face look wistfully: Most happy, if, from aught discovered there Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat The same sad question. Meanwhile her poor hut Sank to decay: for he was gone, whose hand, At the first nipping of October frost,
Closed up each chink, and with fresh bands of
Chequered the green-grown thatch. And so she lived
Through the long winter, reckless and alone; Until her house by frost, and thaw, and rain, Was sapped; and while she slept, the nightly damps
Did chill her breast; and in the stormy day Her tattered clothes were ruffled by the wind; Even at the side of her own fire. Yet still She loved this wretched spot, nor would for worlds
Have parted hence; and still that length of road, And this rude bench, one torturing hope en-
Fast rooted at her heart: and here, my Friend,In sickness she remained; and here she died; Last human tenant of these ruined walls."
The old Man ceased: he saw that I was moved;
From that low bench, rising instinctively I turned aside in weakness, nor had power To thank him for the tale which he had told. I stood, and leaning o'er the garden wall, Reviewed that Woman's sufferings; and it seemed
To comfort me while with a brother's love I blessed her in the impotence of grief. Then towards the cottage I returned; and traced Fondly, though with an interest more mild,
That secret spirit of humanity
Which, mid the calm oblivious tendencies
Of nature, mid her plants, and weeds, and flowers,
And silent overgrowings, still survived.
The old Man, noting this, resumed, and said, 'My Friend! enough to sorrow you have given, The purposes of wisdom ask no more;
Be wise and cheerful; and no longer read The forms of things with an unworthy eye. She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is here. I well remember that those very plumes, Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on that wall,
By mist and silent rain-drops silvered o'er, As once I passed, into my heart conveyed So still an image of tranquillity,
So calm and still, and looked so beautiful Amid the uneasy thoughts which filled my mind, That what we feel of sorrow and despair From ruin and from change, and all the grief The passing shows of Being leave behind, Appeared an idle dream, that could not live Where meditation was. I turned away, And walked along my road in happiness."
He ceased. Ere long the sun declining shot A slant and mellow radiance, which began To fall upon us, while, beneath the trees, We sate on that low Bench: and now we felt,
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