Two blighting seasons, when the fields were left
With half a harvest. It pleased Heaven to add
A worse affliction in the plague of war:
This happy Land was stricken to the heart!
A Wanderer then among the cottages,
I, with my freight of winter raiment, saw
The hardships of that season: many rich
Sank down, as in a dream, among the poor;
And of the poor did many cease to be,

And their place knew them not. Meanwhile, abridged
Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled

To numerous self-denials, Margaret

Went struggling on through those calamitous years
With cheerful hope, until the second Autumn,
When her life's Helpmate on a sick-bed lay,
Smitten with perilous fever. In disease

He linger'd long; and, when his strength return'd,
He found the little he had stored, to meet
The hour of accident or crippling age,
Was all consumed. A second infant now
Was added to the troubles of a time
Laden, for them and all of their degree,
With care and sorrow: shoals of astisans
From ill-requited labour turn'd adrift
Sought daily bread from public charity,
They, and their wives and children; happier far
Could they have lived as do the little birds
That peck along the hedge-rows, or the kite
That makes her dwelling on the mountain rocks!
A sad reverse it was for him who long
Had fill'd with plenty, and possess'd 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 droop'd,
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 toss'd 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,
'Made my heart bleed.'

6

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
With tuneful hum is filling all the air;
Why should a tear be on an old Man's cheek?
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
Pass'd from my mind like a forgotten sound.
Awhile 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 rehearsed
Her homely tale with such familiar power,
With such an active countenance, an eye
So busy, that the things of which he spake
Seem'd present; and, attention now relax'd,
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 cheer'd me long, ere, looking round
Upon that tranquil Ruin, I return'd,

And begg'd 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 mark'd
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 appear'd
What pleasant expectations lured me on

O'er the flat Common!- With quick step I reaclı'd
The threshold, lifted with light hand the latch;
But, when I enter'd, Margaret look'd at me

A little while; then turn'd 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 seem'd to cling upon me, she inquired
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 disappear'd, 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 open'd, found no writing, but beheld
Pieces of money carefully enclosed,

6

Silver and gold. 'I shudder'd 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 learn'd,
From one who by my husband had been sent
With the sad news, that he had join'd 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 fear'd
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 talk'd
Ere we built up a pile of better thoughts,
And with a brighter eye she look'd 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,
Call'd out, and sent a blessing after me,
With tender cheerfulness, and with a voice
That seem'd the very sound of happy thoughts.
I roved o'er many a hill and many a dale,
With my accustom❜d load; in heat and cold,
Through many a wood and many an open ground,
In sunshine and in shade, in wet and fair,
Drooping or blithe of heart, as might befall;

My best companions now the driving winds,

And now the trotting brooks' and whispering trees, And now the music of my own sad steps,

With many a short-lived thought that pass'd between,
And disappear'd.

I journey'd 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 seem'd,
The honeysuckle, crowding round the porch,

Hung down in heavier tufts; and that bright weed,
The yellow stone-crop, suffer'd to take root
Along the window's edge, profusely grew
Blinding the lower panes. I turn'd aside,
And stroll'd into her garden. It appear'd
To lag behind the season, and had lost

Its pride of neatness. Daisy-flowers and thrift
Had broken their trim border-lines, and straggled
O'er paths they used to deck: carnations, once
Prized for surpassing beauty, and no less
For the peculiar pains they had required,
Declined their languid heads, wanting support.
The cumbrous bind-weed, with its wreaths and bells,
Had twined about her two small rows of peas,
And dragg'd them to the earth.

Was wasted.

Ere this an hour
Back I turn'd my restless steps;
A stranger pass'd; 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 self-still'd,
The voice was silent. From the bench I rose;
But neither could divert nor soothe my thoughts.
The spot, though fair, was very desolate,-
The longer I remain'd, more desolate :
And, looking round me, now I first observed
The corner stones, on either side the porch,
With dull red stains discolour'd, 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 turn'd, and saw her distant a few steps.
Her face was pale and thin; her figure, too,
Was changed. As she unlock'd the door, she said,
'It grieves me you have waited here so long,
But, in good truth, I've wander'd 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;