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Was busy in the distance, shaping things
That made her heart beat quick. You see that

path, Now faint,--the grass has crept o'er its grey

line;

There, to and fro, she paced through many a

day 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

red, 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

straw

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

deared, Fast rooted at her heart : and here, my Friend, In sickness she remained ; and here she died; Last human tenant of these ruined walls."

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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; ana 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,

Admonished thus, the sweet hour coming on.
A linnet warbled from those lofty elms,
A thrush sang loud, and other melodies,
At distance heard, peopled the milder air.
The old Man rose, and with a sprightly mien
Of hopeful preparation, grasped his staff:
Together casting then a farewell look
Upon those silent walls, we left the shade ;
And, ere the stars were visible, had reached
A village inn,--our evening resting-place.

1814.

TO THE DAISY.

** Her* divine skill taught me this,

That from every thing I saw
I could some instruction draw,
And raise pleasure to the height
Through the meanest object's sight.
By the murmur of a spring,
Or the least bough's rustelling;
By a Daisy whose leaves spread
Shut when Titan goes to bed ;
Or a shady bush or tree;
She could more infuse in me
Than all Nature's beauties can
In some other wiser man."

G. WITHER,

In youth from rock to rock I went,
From hill to hill in discontent
Of pleasure high and turbulent,

Most pleased when most uneasy ;
But now my own delights I make,-
My thirst at every rill can slake,
And Nature's love of thee partake,

Her much-loved Daisy !

* His muse.

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