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 cares, 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, whereso'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 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 falt'ring voice Made many a fond inquiry; 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 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!"
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.
At length towards the cottage I returned
Fondly, and traced, with 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 raindrops silvered o'er, As once I passed, did to my heart convey
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 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.
The Author describes his travels with the Wanderer, whose character is further illustrated -Morning scene, and view of a Village 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 valley-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 Solitary-Wanderer'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 spec tacle upon the mountains, with its effect upon the Solitary's mind-Quit 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 honoured race Drew happier, loftier, more impassioned thoughts From his long journeyings and eventful life, Than this obscure itinerant (an obscure But a high-souled and tender-hearted man) Had skill to draw from many a ramble, far And wide protracted 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 favourite school Hath been the fields, the roads, and rural lanes, Looked on this guide with reverential love! Each with the other pleased, we now pursued Our journey-beneath favourable skies. Turn wheresoe'er we would, he was a light Unfailing: not a hamlet could we pass, Rarely a house, which 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 supply; 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 insect 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 Along the field, and in the shady grove; 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. Greetings and smiles we met with all day long, From faces that we knew; we took our seats By many a cottage-hearth, where he received The welcome of an inmate from afar. Nor was he loth to enter ragged huts, Wherein his charity was blessed; his voice Heard as the voice of an experienced friend.
And, sometimes-where the poor man held dispute With his own mind, unable to subdue Impatience, through inaptness to perceive General distress in his particular lot: Or cherishing resentment, or in vain Struggling against it, with a soul perplexed, And finding in itself no steady power To draw the line of comfort that divides Calamity, the chastisement of Heaven, From the injustice of our brother men- To him appeal was made as to a judge; Who, with an understanding heart, allayed The perturbation; listened to the plea; Resolved the dubious point; and sentence gave,
So grounded, so applied, that it was heard With softened spirit-even when it condemned.
Such intercourse I witnessed while we roved Now as his choice directed, now as mine; Or both, with equal readiness of will, Our course submitting to the changeful breeze Of accident. But when the rising sun Had three times called us to renew our walk, My fellow-traveller said, with earnest voice, As if the thought were but a moment old, That I must yield myself without reserve To his disposal. Glad was I of this. We started, and he led me towards the hills; Up through an ample vale, with higher hills Before us, mountains stern and desolate; But in the majesty of distance now Set off, and to our ken appearing fair Of aspect, with aërial softness clad,
And beautified with morning's purple beams.
The wealthy, the luxurious, by the stress Of business roused, or pleasure, ere their time, May roll in chariots, or provoke the hoofs Of the fleet coursers they bestride, to raise From earth the dust of morning, slow to rise; And they, if blest with health and hearts at ease, Shall lack not their enjoyment: but how faint Compared with ours, who, pacing side by side, Could, with an eye of leisure, look on all That we beheld; and lend the listening sense To every grateful sound of earth and air- Pausing at will; our spirits braced, our thoughts Pleasant as roses in the thickets blown, And pure as dew bathing their crimson leaves.
Mount slowly, sun! and may our journey lie Awhile within the shadow of this hill, This friendly bill, a shelter from thy beams! Such is the summer pilgrim's frequent wish: And as that wish, with prevalence of thanks For present good o'er fear of future ill,
Stole in among the morning's blither thoughts, 'Twas chased away, for tow'rds the western side Of the broad vale, casting a casual glance, We saw a throng of people-wherefore met? Blithe notes of music, suddenly let loose On the thrilled ear, did to the question yield Prompt answer; they proclaim the annual wake, Which the bright season favours. Tabor and pipe In purpose join to hasten and reprove The laggard rustic; and repay with boons Of merriment a particoloured knot, Already formed upon the village green.. Beyond the limits of the shadow cast By the broad hill, glistened upon our sight
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