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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 trem blingly

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

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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,

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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,
I found that she was absent. In the shade,
Where now we sit, I waited her return.
Her cottage, then a cheerful object, wore
Its customary look, only, it seemed,
The honeysuckle, crowding round
porch,

the

Hung down in heavier tufts; and that bright weed,

The yellow stone-crop, suffered to take root
Along the window's edge, profusely grew
Blinding the lower panes. I turned aside,
And strolled into her garden. It appeared
To lag behind the season, and had lost
Its pride of neatness. Daisy-flowers and
thrift

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

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The spot, though fair, was very desolate-
The longer I remained, more desolate
And, looking round me, now I first ob-
served

The corner stones, on either side the porch,
With dull red stains discolored, and stuck

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,
To a kind master on a distant farm
Now happily apprenticed.' I perceive
You look at me, and you have cause; to-

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Have flowed as if my body were not such
As others are; and I could never die.
But I am now in mind and in my heart
More easy; and I hope,' said she, 'that
God

Will give me patience to endure the things
Which I behold at home.'

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
Her goodness, that, not seldom, in my walks
A momentary trance comes over me;
And to myself I seem to muse on One
By sorrow laid asleep, or borne away,
A human being destined to awake
To human life, or something very near
To human life, when he shall come again
For whom she suffered. Yes, it would
have grieved

Your very soul to see her: evermore
Her eyelids drooped, her eyes downward
were cast;

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
Pertaining to her house affairs, appeared
The careless stillness of a thinking mind
Self-occupied; to which all outward things
Are like an idle matter. Still she sighed,
But yet no motion of the breast was seen,
No heaving of the heart. While by the fire
We sate together, sighs came on my ear,
I knew not how, and hardly whence they

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;
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.' When to the
House

We had returned together, 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.

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Our final parting; for from that time forth
Did many seasons pass ere I returned
Into this tract again.
Nine tedious years;
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 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,
The little child who sate to turn the wheel
Ceased from his task; and she with falter-
ing 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 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!"

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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 overgrowing, 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:
Nor more would she have craved as due to
One

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
Upon the breast of Faith. 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 elm.s,
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-pla

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
The Minstrel! wandering on from hall to
hall,

Baronial court or royal; cheered with gifts
Munificent, and love, and ladies' praise;
Now meeting on his road an armed knight,
Now resting with a pilgrim by the side
Of a clear brook ;-beneath an abbey's roof
One evening sumptuously lodged; the next,
Humbly in a religious hospital;

Or with some merry outlaws of the wood;
Or haply shrouded in a hermit's cell.
Him, sleeping or awake, the robber spared:
He walked--protected from the sword of

war

By virtue of that sacred instrument
His harp, suspended at the traveller's side;
His dear companion wheresoe'er he went,
Opening from land to land an easy way
By melody, and by the charm of verse.
Yet not the noblest of that honored race
Drew happier, loftier, more impassioned,
thoughts

From his long journeyings and eventful
Life,

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.
Turn wheresoe'er we would, he was a light
Unfailing: not a hamlet could we pass,
Rarely a house, that did not yield to him
Remembrances; or from his tongue call
forth

Some way-beguiling tale. Nor less regard
Accompanied those strains of apt discourse
Which nature's various objects might in-
spire;

And in the silence of his face I read

His overflowing spirit. Birds and beasts,
And the mute fish that glances in the stream,
And harmless reptile coiling in the sun,
And gorgeous insects hovering in the air,
The fowl domestic, and the household dog-
In his capacious mind, he loved them all;
Their rights acknowledging he felt for all.
Oft was occasion given me to perceive
How the calm pleasures of the pasturing

herd

To happy contemplation soothed his walk; How the poor brute's condition, forced to

run

Its course of suffering in the public road,
Sad contrast! all too often smote his heart
With unavailing pity. Rich in love
And sweet humanity, he was, himself,
To the degree that he desired, beloved.
Smiles of good-will from faces that he knew
Greeted us all day long; we took our seats
By many a cottage-hearth, where he received
The welcome of an Inmate from afar,
And I at once forgot I was a Stranger.

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