The fence where that aspiring shrub 490 In mortal stillness; and they ministered looked out Upon the public way. It was a plot Of garden ground run wild, its matted 455 Marked with the steps of those, whom, The gooseberry trees that shot in long lank 495 slips, Or currants, hanging from their leafless stems, In scanty strings, had tempted to o'erleap The broken wall. I looked around, and there, 460 Where two tall hedge-rows of thick alder boughs Joined in a cold damp nook, espied a well Shrouded with willow-flowers and plumy fern. My thirst I slaked, and, from the cheerless spot Withdrawing, straightway to the shade returned 465 Where sate the old man on the cottagebench; And, while, beside him, with uncovered I yet was standing, freely to respire, 470 Things which you cannot see: we die, my friend, Nor we alone, but that which each man 500 505 To human comfort. Stooping down to drink, That he was often seated at his loom, 525 In summer, ere the mower was abroad Among the dewy grass,-in early spring, At evening, from behind the garden fence ply, 530 After his daily work, until the light 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: 540 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; 545 And of the poor did many cease to be, And their place knew them not. Meanwhile, abridged Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled 550 With cheerful hope, until the second autumn, Then, not less idly, sought, through every nook In house or garden, any casual work Of use or ornament; and with a strange, 575 Amusing, yet uneasy, novelty, 580 585 He mingled, where he might, the various tasks Of summer, autumn, winter, and of spring. Would turn without an errand his slack Or wander here and there among the fields. And with a cruel tongue: at other times 590 Said Margaret to me, here beneath these trees, When her life's helpmate on a sick-bed lay, He found the little he had stored, to meet 555 The hour of accident or crippling age, Was all consumed. A second infant now Could they have lived as do the little birds kite 565 That makes her dwelling on the mountain rocks! "A sad reverse it was for him who long Had filled with plenty, and possessed in peace, Are cheerful; while this multitude of flies Why should we thus, with an untoward 600 And in the weakness of humanity, From natural wisdom turn our hearts away; To natural comforts shut our eyes and ears; And, feeding on disquiet, thus disturb The calm of nature with our restless thoughts?" 605 He spake with somewhat of a solemn tone: This lonely cottage. At the door he stood, And whistled many a snatch of merry tunes 610 570 That had no mirth in them; or with his knife Carved uncouth figures on the heads of sound. A while on trivial things we held discourse, To me soon tasteless. In my own despite, I thought of that poor woman as of one I cannot tell how she pronounced my name: With fervent love, and with a face of grief That seemed to cling upon me, she enquired Nor had I power to answer ere she told That he had disappeared-not two months gone. He left his house: two wretched days had past, And on the third, as wistfully she raised To meet her waking eyes. This tremblingly Was ended, that long anxious day, I learned, From one who by my husband had been sent With the sad news, that he had joined 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 feared 680 That I should follow with my babes, and sink And, while I paced along the foot-way path, 695 With tender cheerfulness, and with a voice That seemed the very sound of happy thoughts. "I roved o'er many a hill and many a With my accustomed load; in heat and cold, 700 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, 705 With many a short-lived thought that passed between, And disappeared. I journeyed 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 710 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 seemed, 715 The honeysuckle, crowding round the porch, Hung down in heavier tufts; and that 755 That fed upon the Common, thither came From these tall elms; the cottage-clock I turned, and saw her distant a few steps. She told me-interrupting not the work 760 That she had parted with her elder child; 725 Prized for surpassing beauty, and no less For the peculiar pains they had required, Declined their languid heads, wanting sup- 765 port. The cumbrous bind-weed, with its wreaths and bells, Had twined about her two small rows of peas, 730 And dragged them to the earth. Ere this an hour Was wasted.-Back I turned my restless steps; A stranger passed; and, guessing whom I sought, He said that she was used to ramble far.The sun was sinking in the west; and now 735 I sat with sad impatience. From within 1 Burns, To William Simpson, 87. wrong And to this helpless infant. I have slept 770 Weeping, and weeping have I waked; my tears Have flowed as if my body were not such It would have grieved |