And on the third, as wistfully she raised To meet her waking eyes. This trem blingly She opened-found no writing, but beheld 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. heart 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 looked, And, while I paced along the foot-way path, Called out, and sent a blessing after ine, 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 coid, Through many a wood and many an open ground, In sunshine and in shade, in wet and fair, I journeyed back this way, When, in the warmth of midsummer, the wheat Was yellow; and the soft and bladed grass, Springing afresh, had o'er the hay-field spread Its tender verdure. At the door arrived, the Hung down in heavier tufts; and that bright weed, The yellow stone-crop, suffered to take root Had broken their trim border-lines, and straggled Conce O'er paths they used to deck: carnations, Prized for surpassing beauty, and no less For the peculiar pains they had required, Declined their languid heads, wanting sup port. The cumbrous bind-weed, with its weraths and bells, Had twined about her two small rows of peas, And dragged them to the earth. Ere this an hour Was wasted.-Back I turned my restless steps; A stranger passed; and, guessing whom I sought, He said that she was used to ramble far.The sun was sinking in the west; and now I sate with sad impatience. From within Her solitary infant cried aloud; Then, like a blast that dies away selfstilled, The voice was silent. From the bench I The spot, though fair, was very desolate- The corner stones, on either side the porch, o'er With tufts and hairs of wool, as if the sheep, That fed upon the Common, thither came Familiarly, and found a couching-place Even at her threshold. Deeper shadows fell From these tall elms; the cottage clock struck eight; I turned, and saw her distant a few steps. Her face was pale and thin-her figure, too, Was changed. As she unlocked the door, she said, 'It grieves me you have waited here so long, But, in good truth, I've wandered much of late; And, sometimes--to my shame I speak have need Of my best prayers to bring me back again.' While on the board she spread our evening meal, She told me-interrupting not the work Which gave employment to her listless hands That she had parted with her elder child, Have flowed as if my body were not such Will give me patience to endure the things It would have grieved Your very soul to see her. Sir, I feel The story linger in my heart; I fear 'Tis long and tedious; but my spirit clings To that poor woman :-so familiarly Do I perceive her manner, and her look, And presence; and so deeply do I feel Your very soul to see her: evermore And, when she, at her table, gave me food, She did not look at me. Her voice was low, Her body was subdued. In every act came. Ere my departure, to her care I gave, For her son's use, some tokens of regard, Which with a look of welcome she received; And I exhorted her to place her trust In God's good love, and seek his help by prayer 1 took my staff, and, when I kissed her babe, The tears stood in her eyes. I left her then With the best hope and comfort I could give: She thanked me for my wish ;-but for my hope It seemed she did not thank me. I returned, And took my rounds along this road again When on its sunny bank the primrose flower Peeped forth, to give an earnest of the Spring. I found her sad and drooping; she had learned No tidings of her husband; if he lived, She knew not that he lived; if he were dead, [same She new not he was dead. She seemed the In person and appearance; but her house Bespake a sleepy hand of negligence; The floor was neither dry nor neat, the hearth Was comfortless, and her small lot of books, Which, in the cottage window, heretofore 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. I withdrew, And once again entering the garden, 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 mould, 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; arms, And, noting that my eye was on the tree, We had returned together, she enquired Our final parting; for from that time forth A sore heart-wasting! I have heard, my That in yon arbor 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 path, Now faint-the grass has crept o'er its gray 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 longdrawn 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, Made many a fond enquiry; and when they, 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 Jatch 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 Checkered 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 endeared, Fast rooted at her heart: and here, my Friend, In sickness she remained; and here she died: Last human tenant of these ruined walls!" To comfort me while with a brother's love Fondly, though with an interest more mild, And silent overgrowing, still survived. The purposes of wisdom ask no more: Who, in her worst distress, had ofttimes felt The unbounded might of prayer; and learned, with soul Fixed on the Cross, that consolation springs From sources deeper far than deepest pain For the meek sufferer. Why then should we 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 That passing shows of Being leave behind, Appeared an idle dream, that could maintain, Nowhere, dominion o'er the enlightened spirit Whose meditative sympathies repose He ceased. Ere long the sun declining shot A slant and mellow radiance, which began Of hopeful preparation, grasped his staff; THE SOLITARY ARGUMENT. BOOK SECOND. The Author describes his travels with the Wanderer, whose character is further illustrated-Morning scene, and view of a Viilage Wake Wanderer's account of a Friend whom he purposes to visit-View, from an eminence, of the Valley which his Friend had chosen for his retreat-Sound of singing from below-A funeral procession-Descent into the Vasey-Observations drawn from the Wanderer at sight of a book accidentally discovered in a recess in the Valley-Meeting with the Wanderer's friend-the SolitaryWanderer's description of the mode of burial in this mountainous district-Solitary contrasts with this, that of the individual carried a few minutes before from the cottage-The Cottage entered-Description of the Solitary's apartment-Repast there-View, from the window, of two mountain summits; and the Solitary's description of the companionship they afford him-Account of the departed inmate of the cottage-Description of a grand spectacle upon the mountains, with its effect upon the Solitary's mind-Leave the house. IN days of yore how fortunately fared Baronial court or royal; cheered with gifts Or with some merry outlaws of the wood; war By virtue of that sacred instrument From his long journeyings and eventful Than this obscure Itinerant had skill To gather, ranging through the tamer ground Of these our unimaginative days; Both while he trod the earth in humblest guise Accoutred with his burthen and his staff; And now, when free to move with lighter pace. What wonder then, if I, whose favorite school Hath been the fields, the roads, and rural lanes, Looked on this guide with reverential love? Each with the other pleased, we now pur. sued Our journey, under favorable skies. Some way-beguiling tale. Nor less regard And in the silence of his face I read His overflowing spirit. Birds and beasts, herd To happy contemplation soothed his walk; How the poor brute's condition, forced to run Its course of suffering in the public road, |