Burn to the socket. Many a passenger
Hath bless'd poor Margaret for her gentle looks, When she upheld the cool refreshment drawn From that forsaken spring: and no one came But he was welcome; no one went away But that it seem'd she loved him. She is dead, The light extinguish'd of her lonely hut, The hut itself abandon'd to decay, And she forgotten in the quiet grave!
"I speak," continued he, " of one whose stock • Of virtues bloom'd beneath this lowly roof. She was a woman of a steady mind, Tender and deep in her excess of love, Not speaking much, pleased rather with the joy Of her own thoughts: by some especial care Her temper had been framed, as if to make A being-who by adding love to peace Might live on earth a life of happiness. Her wedded partner lack'd not on his side The humble worth that satisfied her heart: Frugal, affectionate, sober, and withal Keenly industrious. She with pride would tell That he was often seated at his loom, In summer, ere the mower was abroad Among the dewy grass,-in early spring, Ere the last star had vanish'd.-They who pass'd At evening, from behind the garden fence Might hear his busy spade, which he would ply, After his daily work, until the light
Had fail'd, and every leaf and flower were lost In the dark hedgés. So their days were spent In peace and comfort; and a pretty boy Was their best hope,-next to the God in heaven. "Not twenty years ago, but you I think Can scarcely bear it now in mind, there came 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.
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 artisans From ill requitted 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 his 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 blended, where he might, the various tasks Of summer, autumn, winter, and the 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, Without an errand, would direct his 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.'"
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 Is filling all the air with melody;
Why should a tear be in an old man's eye? 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 out 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 heartfelt 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 reach'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, Silver and gold. I shudder'd at the sight,' Said Margaret, for I knew it was his hand Which placed it there and ere that day was ended, That long and anxious day! I learn'd from one Sent hither by my husband to impart The heavy 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 footway 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 shortlived thought that pass'd be- tween,
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 stonecrop, 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 lines, and straggled o'er The 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 bindweed, with its wreaths and bells,
Had twined about her two small rows of pease, And dragg'd them to the earth.-Ere this an hour Was wasted.-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 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,
You look at me, and you have cause; to-day I have been travelling far; and many days About the fields I wander, knowing this Only, that what I seek I cannot find;
And so I waste my time: for I am changed; And to myself,' said she,' have done much wrong And to this helpless infant. I have slept Weeping, and weeping have I waked; my tears Have flow'd 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 suffer'd. Yes, it would have grieved Your very soul to see her: evermore
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 babe 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 grief 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 mould, 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 tree, 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 selfsame 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,
Her eyelids droop'd, her eyes were downward cast; And she was left alone. She now, released
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 place 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 Methought, she did not thank me.
"I return'd, 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 same In person and appearance; but her house Bespake a sleepy hand of negligence;
From her maternal cares, had taken up
Th' employment common through these wilds, and
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 track 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 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 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 faltering 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 Checker'd the green-grown thatch. And so she lived
Through the long winter, reckless and alone; Until the 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; E'en 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 speargrass on that wall, By mist and silent rain-drops 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 th' uneasy thoughts which fill'd my mind, That what we feel of sorrow and despair From ruin and from change, and all the grief The passing shows of being leave behind, Appear'd an idle dream, that could not live 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.
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. Feelings of the author at the sight of it. 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. Brief conversation. 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. Quit the house.
IN days of yore how fortunately fared The minstrel! wandering on from hall to hall, Baronial court or royal! cheer'd 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 walk'd-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 honour'd race Drew happier, loftier, more impassion'd 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 burden 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, 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 inspire; 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 sooth'd 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. Greetings and smiles we met with all day long From faces that he knew; we took our seats By many a cottage hearth, where he received The welcome of an inmate come from far. Nor was he loath to enter ragged huts,
Huts where his charity was blest; his voice Heard as the voice of an experienced friend.
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! that we may journey long, By this dark hill protected from thy beams! Such is the summer pilgrim's frequent wish; But quickly from among our morning thoughts 'Twas chased away: for, toward 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 thrill'd ear, and flags uprising, 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 boon Of merriment a party-colour'd knot, Already form'd upon the village green. Beyond the limits of the shadow cast By the broad hill, glisten'd upon our sight That gay assemblage. Round them and above Glitter, with dark recesses interposed,
And, sometimes, where the poor man held dis- Casement, and cottage-roof, and stems of trees
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 perplex'd, And finding in herself 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, allay'd The perturbation; listen'd to the plea; Resolved the dubious point; and sentence gave So grounded, so applied, that it was heard With soften'd spirit-even when it condemn'd. Such intercourse I witness'd, 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 call'd us to renew our walk, My fellow traveller, with earnest voice, As if the thought were but a moment old, Claim'd absolute dominion for the day. We started-and he led 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
Half-veil'd in vapory cloud, the silver steam Of dews fast melting on their leafy boughs By the strong sunbeams smitten. Like a mast Of gold, the maypole shines; as if the rays Of morning, aided by exhaling dew, With gladsome influence could reanimate The faded garlands dangling from its sides.
Said I," the music and the sprightly scene Invite us; shall we quit our road, and join These festive matins ?"-He replied, “not loath Here would I linger, and with you partake, Not one hour merely, but till evening's close The simple pastimes of the day and place. By the fleet racers, ere the sun be set, The turf of yon large pasture will be skimm'd; There, too, the lusty wrestlers shall contend: But know we not that he, who intermits Th' appointed task and duties of the day, Untunes full oft the pleasures of the day; Checking the finer spirits that refuse To flow, when purposes are lightly changed? We must proceed-a length of journey yet Remains untraced." Then, pointing with his staff Raised toward those craggy summits, his intent He thus imparted.
"In a spot that lies Among yon mountain fastnesses conceal'd You will receive, before the hour of noon, Good recompense, hope, for this day's toil-
| From sight of one who lives secluded there,
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