For whora she suffer'd. Yes, it would have grieved
Your very soul to see her: evermore

Her eyelids droop'd, her eyes were downward 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, appear'd
The careless stillness of a thinking mind
Self-occupied; to which all outward things
Are like an idle matter. Still she sigh'd,
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 have her trust

In God's good love, and seek his help by prayer.
I took my staff, and when I kiss'd her babe,
The tears stood in her eyes. I left her then
With the best hope and comfort I could give.
She thank'd me for my wish; but for my hope
It seem'd she did not thank me.

"I returned,
And took my rounds along this road again
Ere on its sunny bank the primrose flower
Peep'd forth, to give an earnest of the spring.
I found her sad and drooping; she had learn'd
No tidings of her husband; if he lived,

She knew not that he lived; if he were dead,
She knew not he was dead. She seem'd the sam
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 scatter'd here and there, open or shut
As they had chanced to fall. Her infant babc
Had from its mother caught the trick of grief,
And sigh'd among its playthings. Once again
I turn'd towards the garden gate, and saw,
More plainly still, that poverty and griet
Were now come nearer to her: weeds defaced
The harden'd soil, and knots of wither'd grass;
No ridges there appear'd of clear black mold,
No winter greenness; of her herbs and flowers,
It seem'd the better part were gnaw'd 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 trec,
She said, I fear it will be dead and gone
Ere Robert come again.' Towards the house
Together we return'd, and she inquired
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 undisturb'd behind the door. And when,
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 gain'd
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 walk'd with me along the miry road
Heedless how far; and, in such piteous sort
That any heart had ached to hear her, begg'd
That, wheresoe'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 return'd

Into this tract again.

"Nine tedious years

From their first separation, nine long years,

She linger'd 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 pass'd 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 pass'd
A man whose garments show'd 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 discover'd 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
Chequer'd 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 sapp'd; and while she slept, the nightly damps
Did chill her breast; and in the stormy day
Her tatter'd 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 endear'd,
Fast rooted at her heart: and here, my friend,-
In sickness she remain'd; and here she died,
Last human tenant of these ruin'd walls!"

The old man ceased: he saw that I was moved; From that low bench, rising instinctively I turn'd 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, Review'd that woman's sufferings; and it seem'd To comfort me, while, with a brother's love,

I bless'd her in the impotence of grief.

At length towards the cottage I return'd

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 silver'd o'er,
As once I pass'd, did to my heart convey

So still an image of tranquillity,

So calm and still, and look'd so beautiful

Amid the uneasy thoughts which fill'd 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,
Appear'd an idle dream, that could not live

THE EXCURSION-THE SOLITARY.

Where meditation was. I turn'd away,
And walk'd 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,
Admonish'd 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, grasp'd his staff;
Together casting then a farewell look
Upon those silent walls, we left the shade;
And, ere the stars were visible, had reach'd
A village inn,-our evening resting-place.

BOOK II.

THE SOLITARY.

or describes his travels with the Wanderer, whose character is further illustrated ng scene, and view of a Village Wake-Wanderer's account of a friend whom oses to visit-View, from an eminence, of the valley which his friend had or his retreat-Sound of singing from below-a funeral procession-Descent into y-Observations drawn from the Wanderer at sight of a book accidentally disin a recess in the valley-Meeting with the Wanderer's friend, the Solitaryr's description of the mode of burial in this mountainous district-Solitary with this, that of the individual carried a few minutes before from the cottage stage entered-Description of the Solitary's apartment-Repast there-View window, of two mountain summits-and the Solitary's description of the nship they afford him-Account of the departed inmate of the cottagen of a grand spectacle upon the mountains, with its effect upon the Solitary's it the house.

days of yore how fortunately fared

e minstrel! wandering on from hall to hall,
onial court or royal; cheer'd with gifts
nificent, and love, and ladies' praise;
v meeting on his road an armed knight,
v resting with a pilgrim by the side
clear brook; beneath an abbey's roof
evening sumptuously lodged; the next
bly in a religious hospital;

ith some merry outlaws of the wood;
aply shrouded in a hermit's cell.
sleeping or awake, the robber spared;
alk'd protected from the sword of war,
rtue of that sacred instrument.

Yet not the noblest of that honour'd race
Drew happier, loftier, more impassion'd thoughts.
From his long journeyings and eventful life,
Than this obscure itinerant (an obscure
But a high-soul'd 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,
Look'd 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 bless'd; 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