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.

abridged

Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled To numerous self-denials, Margaret

Meanwhile,

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,

:

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,

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.

BOOK II.

THE SOLITARY.

ARGUMENT.

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