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To blend with knowledge of the years to come, Human, or such as lie beyond the grave.

Ile rose,

So was He framed; and such his course of life
Who now, with no Appendage but a Staff
The prized memorial of relinquished toils,
Upon that Cottage bench reposed his limbs,
Screen'd from the sun. Supine the Wanderer lay,
His eyes as if in drowsiness half shut,
The shadows of the breezy elms above
Dappling his face. He had not heard the sound
Of my approaching steps, and in the shade
Unnoticed did I stand, some minutes' space.
At length I hail'd him, seeing that his hat
Was moist with water-drops, as if the brim
Had newly scoop'd a running stream.
And ere our lively greeting into peace
Had settled, «T is,» said I, « a burning day;
My lips are parch'd with thirst, but
it seems,
you,
Have somewhere found relief.» He, at the word,
Pointing towards a sweet-briar, bade me climb
The fence where that aspiring shrub look'd out
Upon the public way. It was a plot
Of garden-ground run wild, its matted weeds
Mark'd with the steps of those, whom, as they pass'd,
The gooseberry trees that shot in long lank slips,
Or currants, hanging from their leafless stems
In scanty strings, had tempted to o'erleap
The broken wall. I look'd around, and there,
Where two tall hedge-rows of thick alder boughs
Join'd in a cold damp nook, espied a Well
Shrouded with willow-lowers and plumy fern.
My thirst I slaked, and from the cheerless spot
Withdrawing, straightway to the shade return'd
Where sate the Old Man on the Cottage bench;
And, while, beside him, with uncover'd head,
I yet was standing, freely to respire,
And cool my temples in the fanning air,
Thus did he speak. «I see around me here
Things which you cannot see: we die, my Friend,
Nor we alone, but that which each man loved
And prized in his peculiar nook of carth
Dies with him, or is changed; and very soon
Even of the good is no memorial left.
-The Poets, in their elegies and songs
Lamenting the departed, call the groves,
They call upon the hills and streams to mourn,
And senseless rocks; nor idly; for they speak,
In these their invocations, with a voice
Obedient to the strong creative power
Of human passion. Sympathies there are
More tranquil, yet perhaps of kindred birth,
That steal upon the meditative mind,

And grow with thought. Beside yon Spring I stood,
And eyed its waters till we seem'd to feel
One sadness, they and I. For them a bond
Of brotherhood is broken: time has been
When, every day, the touch of human hand
Dislodged the natural sleep that binds them up
In mortal stillness; and they minister'd
To human comfort. Stooping down to drink,
Upon the slimy foot-stone I espied
The useless fragment of a wooden bowl,
Green with the moss of years, and subject only
To the soft handling of the Elements:

There let the relic lie-fond thought-vain words!
Forgive them-never did my steps approach
This humble door but she who dwelt within
A daughter's welcome gave me, and I loved her
As my own child. Oh, Sir! the good die first,
And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust
Burn to the socket. Many a Passenger
flath 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 bloomed 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 l'eing-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,

n 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 hedges. So their days were spent
In peace and comfort; and a pretty Boy
Was their best hope,-next to the God in ileaven.

<< 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 afiliction 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. Meanwhile, abridged

Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled

To numerous self-denials, Margaret

Went struggling on through those calamitous years
With cheerful hope, until the second autumu,
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 requited 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 flim 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 of 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 it was 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.'»>

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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 reachi'd
The threshold, lifted with light hand the latch;
But, when I entered, Margaret look'd at me
A little while; then turn'd her head away
Speechless, and sitting down upon a chair

At this the Wanderer paused; ¦ Wept bitterly. I wist not what to do,

peace,

And, looking up to those enormous Elms,
He said, "T is now the hour of deepest noon.-
At this still season of
repose and
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 our 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.
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
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,

Or 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 pass'd,
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 learned 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.-T was 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 foot-way 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 befal;
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 short-lived thought that pass'd between,
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 stone-crop, 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-flow'rs 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, without support.
The cumbrous bind-weed, with its wreaths and bells,
Had twined about her two small rows of pcase,
And dragg'd them to the earth.-Ere this an hour
Was wasted.-Back 1 turn'd my restless steps;
A Stranger pass'd; and, guessing whom I sought,
Ile said that she was used to ramble far.-
The sun was sinking in the west; and now
I sate with sad impatience. From within
Пler 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,
She told me-interrupting not the work
Which gave employment to her listless hands-
That she had parted with her elder Child;
To a kind master on a distant farm

Now happily apprenticed.—' I perceive
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 his 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.

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But I am now in mind and in my heart
More easy; and I hope,' said she, that Heaven
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

T is 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

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 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;

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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 Hu-band; 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;

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 scattered 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 turned 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 withered 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 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 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
had taken up
cares,
The employment common through these Wilds,andgain'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,
leedless 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,

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Hut

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 discover'd there
Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat
The same sad question. Meanwhile her poor
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 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,
Review'd that Woman's sufferings; and it seem'd
To comfort me while with a Brother's love

1 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, inid 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,

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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
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.

ARGUMENT.

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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 Laud 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 burthen and his staff;
And now,
when free to move with lighter pace.

What wonder, then, if I, whose favourite School
fath 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

The Author describes his travels with the Wanderer, His overflowing spirit. Birds and beasts, whose character is further illustrated - Morning And the mute fish that glances in the stream, scene, and view of a Village Wake Wanderer's And harmless reptile coiling in the sun, account of a Friend whom he purposes to visit- And gorgeous insect hovering in the air, View, from an eminence, of the Valley which his The fowl domestic, and the household dog, Friend had chosen for his retreat feelings of the In his capacious mind--he loved them all: Author at the sight of it-Sound of singing from Their rights acknowledging, he felt for all. below a funeral procession - Descent into the Val- Oft was occasion given me to perceive ley-Observations drawn from the Wanderer at sight How the calm pleasures of the pasturing Herd of a Book accidentally discovered in a recess in the To happy contemplation soothed his waik; Valley Meeting with the Wanderer's friend, the So- How the poor Brute's condition, forced to run litary-Wanderer's description of the mode of burial Its course of suffering in the public road, in this mountainous district--Solitary contrasts with Sad contrast! all too often smote his heart this, that of the Individual carried a few minutes be- With unavailing pity. Rich in love fore from the Cottage Brief conversation The And sweet humanity, he was, himself, Cottage entered description of the Solitary's apart- To the degree that he desired, beloved. ment- repast there—View from the Window of two -Greetings and smiles we met with all day long mountain summits-and the Solitary's description From faces that he knew; we took our seats of the Companionship they afford him -account of By many a cottage hearth, where he received the departed Inmate of the Cottage-description of The welcome of an lumate come from far. a grand spectacle upon the mountains, with its effect-Nor was he loth to enter ragged Huts, upon the Solitary's mind — Quit the Ilouse.

THE SOLITARY.

IN days of yore how fortunately fared
The Minstrel! wandering on from fall 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;

-

Buts where his charity was blest; 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 rescutment, 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

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