Led Pastorella home. There was not then
A weed where all these nettles overtop
The garden-wall; but sweet-brier, scenting sweet
The morning air; rosemary and marjoram,
All wholesome herbs; and then, that woodbine
wreathed
So lavishly around the pillar'd porch
Its fragrant flowers, that when I past this way,
After a truant absence hastening home,
I could not choose but pass with slacken'd speed
By that delightful fragrance. Sadly changed
Is this poor cottage! and its dwellers, Charles!
Theirs is a simple, melancholy tale,
There's scarce a village but can fellow it:
And yet, methinks, it will not weary thee,
And should not be untold.
A widow here Dwelt with an orphan grandchild: just removed Above the reach of pinching poverty,
She lived on some small pittance, which sufficed,
In better times, the needful calls of life,
Not without comfort. I remember her
Sitting at evening in that open door-way,
And spinning in the sun. Methinks I see her
Raising her eyes and dark-rimm'd spectacles
To see the passer-by, yet ceasing not
To twirl her lengthening thread; or in the garden,
On some dry summer evening, walking round
To view her flowers, and pointing, as she lean'd
Upon the ivory handle of her stick,
To some carnation whose o'erheavy head
Needed support; while with the watering-pot
Joanna follow'd, and refresh'd and trimm'd
The drooping plant; Joanna, her dear child,
As lovely and as happy then as youth
And innocence could make her.
Charles, it seems On this sad business.
As though I were a boy again, and all
The mediate years, with their vicissitudes,
A half-forgotten dream. I see the Maid
So comely in her Sunday dress! her hair,
Her bright, brown hair, wreathed in contracting
curls;
And then her cheek! it was a red and white
That made the delicate hues of art look loathsome.
The countrymen, who on their way to church
Were leaning o'er the bridge, loitering to hear
The bell's last summons, and in idleness
Watching the stream below, would all look up
When she passed by. And her old Grandam,
Charles,
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When I have heard some erring infidel
Speak of our faith as of a gloomy creed,
Inspiring superstitious wretchedness,
Her figure has recurr'd; for she did love
The Sabbath-day; and many a time hath cross'd
These fields in rain and through the winter snows,
When I, a graceless boy, and cold of foot,
Wishing the weary service at its end,
Have wonder'd wherefore that good dame came
Who, if it pleased her, might have staid beside
A comfortable fire.
One only care
Hung on her aged spirit. For herself,
Her path was plain before her, and the close
Ay, James, I am come But with a heavy heart, God knows it, man! Where shall we meet the corpse?
Some hour from hence, By noon, and near about the elms, I take it. This is not as it should be, Gregory, Old men to follow young ones to the grave! This morning, when I heard the bell strike out, I thought that I had never heard it toll So dismally before.
Well, well! my friend, 'Tis what we all must come to, soon or late. But when a young man dies, in the prime of life One born so well, who might have blest us all Many long years! ·
And then the family Extinguish'd in him, and the good old name Only to be remember'd on a tomb-stone ! A name that has gone down from sire to son So many generations! - Many a time
Poor master Edward, who is now a corpse,
When but a child, would come to me and lead me
To the great family-tree, and beg of me
To tell him stories of his ancestors,
Of Eustace, he that went to the Holy Land
With Richard Lion-heart, and that Sir Henry
Who fought at Cressy in King Edward's wars;
And then his little eyes would kindle so
To hear of their brave deeds! I used to think
The bravest of them all would not out-do
My darling boy.
Eight months ago, when the young Squire began
To alter the old mansion, they destroy'd
The martins' nests, that had stood undisturb'd
Under that roof, -ay! long before my memory.
I shook my head at seeing it, and thought
No good could follow.
When the Doctor sent him
Abroad to try the air, it made me certain
That all was over. There's but little hope,
Methinks, that foreign parts can help a man
When his own mother-country will not do.
The last time he came down, these bells rung so,
I thought they would have rock'd the old steeple
down;
And now that dismal toll! I would have staid
Poor young man! I loved him Beyond its reach, but this was a last duty:
Like my own child. I loved the family!
Come Candlemas, and I have been their servant
For five-and-forty years. I lived with them
When his good father brought my Lady home;
And when the young Squire was born, it did me good
To hear the bells so merrily announce
An heir. This is indeed a heavy blow-
I feel it, Gregory, heavier than the weight
Of threescore years. He was a noble lad;
I loved him dearly.
Every body loved him;
Such a fine, generous, open-hearted Youth!
When he came home from school at holydays,
How I rejoiced to see him! He was sure
To come and ask of me what birds there were
About my fields; and when I found a covey,
There's not a testy Squire preserves his game
More charily, than I have kept them safe
For Master Edward. And he look'd so well
Upon a fine, sharp morning after them,
His brown hair frosted, and his cheek so flush'd
With such a wholesome ruddiness, ah, James,
But he was sadly changed when he came down
To keep his birth-day.
I am an old tenant of the family,
Born on the estate; and now that I've outlived it,
Why, 'tis but right to see it to the grave.
Have you heard aught of the new Squire?
And that not well. But be he what he may,
Matters not much to me. The love I bore
To the old family will not easily fix
Upon a stranger. What's on the opposite hill?
Is it not the funeral?
"Tis, I think, some horsemen. Ay! there are the black cloaks; and now I see The white plumes on the hearse.
"Tis hid behind them now.
Ay! now we see it, And there's the coaches following; we shall meet About the bridge. Would that this day were over' I wonder whose turn's next.
She's notable enough; and as for temper,
The best good-humor'd girl! You see yon house,
There by the aspen-tree, whose gray leaves shine
In the wind? she lived a servant at the farm.
And often, as I came to weeding here,
I've heard her singing as she milk'd her cows
So cheerfully. I did not like to hear her,
Because it made me think upon the days
When I had got as little on my mind,
And was as cheerful too. But she would marry. And folks must reap as they have sown. God help her!
These haply may be happier.
Why, for that, I've had my share; some sickness and some sorrow. Well will it be for them to know no worse. Yet I had rather hear a daughter's knell Than her wedding-peal, Sir, if I thought her fate Promised no better things.
Sure, sure, good woman,
You look upon the world with jaundiced eyes!
All have their cares; those who are poor want
wealth;
They who have wealth want more; so are we all
Dissatisfied; yet all live on, and each
Has his own comforts.
Sir! d'ye see that horse Turn'd out to common here by the way-side? He's high in bone; you may tell every rib Even at this distance. Mind him! how he turns His head, to drive away the flies that feed On his gall'd shoulder! There's just grass enough To disappoint his whetted appetite. You see his comforts, Sir!
A wretched beast! Hard labor and worse usage he endures From some bad master. But the lot of the poor Is not like his.
For when the horse lies down at night, no cares
About to-morrow vex him in his dreams :
He knows no quarter-day; and when he gets
Some musty hay or patch of hedge-row grass,
He has no hungry children to claim part
Of his half-meal!
'Tis idleness makes want, And idle habits. If the man will go And spend his evenings by the alehouse fire, Whom can he blame if there be want at home?
Ay! idleness! the rich folks never fail
To find some reason why the poor deserve
Their miseries! - Is it idleness, I pray you,
That brings the fever or the ague fit?
That makes the sick one's sickly appetite
From dry bread and potatoes turn away?
Is it idleness that makes small wages fail
For growing wants?-Six years agone, these bells
Rung on my wedding-day, and I was told
What I might look for; but I did not heed
Good counsel. I had lived in service, Sir;
Knew never what it was to want a meal;
Lay down without one thought to keep me sleepless,
Or trouble me in sleep; had for a Sunday
My linen gown, and when the pedler came,
Could buy me a new ribbon. And my husband, -
A towardly young man, and well to do, -
He had his silver buckles and his watch;
There was not in the village one who look'd
Sprucer on holydays. We married, Sir,
And we had children; but while wants increased,
Wages stood still. The silver buckles went;
So went the watch; and when the holyday coat
Was worn to work, no new * one in its place.
For me you see my rags! but I deserve them,
For wilfully, like this new-married pair,
I went to my undoing.
Ay, it falls heavy there; and yet their pittance
* A farmer once told the author of Malvern Hills, "that he almost constantly remarked a gradation of changes in those men he had been in the habit of employing. Young men, he said, were generally neat in their appearance, active and cheerful, till they became married and had a family, when he had observed that their silver buttons, buckles, and watches gradually disappeared, and their Sunday clothes became common, without any other to supply their place, but, said he, some good comes from this, for they will then work for whatever they can get."
Note to COTTLE'S Malvern Hills.
But sure this lack of Christian charity Looks not like Christian truth.
Now, Sir, you touch
Upon the point. This man of half a million
Had all these public virtues which you praise :
Your pardon too, Sir, But the poor man rung never at his door,
And the old beggar, at the public gate,
If, with this text before me, I should feel
In the preaching mood! But for these barren fig- Who, all the summer long, stands hat in hand,
All honest, open, honorable gains,
Fair, legal interest, bonds and mortgages, Ships to the East and West.
He knew how vain it was to lift an eye
To that hard face. Yet he was always found Among your ten and twenty pound subscribers, Your benefactors in the newspapers.
His alms were money put to interest
In the other world, - donations to keep open
A running charity account with Heaven, -
Retaining fees against the Last Assizes,
When, for the trusted talents, strict account
Shall be required from all, and the old Arch-Lawyer
Plead his own cause as plaintiff.
Believe you, Sir: - these are your witnesses,
These mourners here, who from their carriages
Gape at the gaping crowd. A good March wind
Why judge you then Were to be pray'd for now, to lend their eyes
Undone; - for sins, not one of which is written
In the Ten Commandments. He, I warrant him,
Believed no other Gods than those of the Creed;
Bow'd to no idols, but his money-bags;
Swore no false oaths, except at the custom-house;
Kept the Sabbath idle; built a monument
To honor his dead father; did no murder;
Never sustain'd an action for crim-con;
Never pick'd pockets; never bore false witness;
And never, with that all-commanding wealth,
Coveted his neighbor's house, nor ox, nor ass!
You knew him, then, it seems?
The virtues of your hundred-thousanders; They never hide their lights beneath a bushel.
Some decent rheum; the very hireling mute
Bears not a face more blank of all emotion
Than the old servant of the family!
How can this man have lived, that thus his death
Costs not the soiling one white handkerchief?
Who should lament for him, Sir, in whose heart
Love had no place, nor natural charity?
The palor spaniel, when she heard his step,
Rose slowly from the hearth, and stole aside
With creeping pace; she never raised her eyes
To woo kind words from him, nor laid her head
Upraised upon his knee, with fondling whine.
How could it be but thus? Arithmetic
Was the sole science he was ever taught;
The multiplication-table was his Creed,
His Pater-noster, and his Decalogue.
When yet he was a boy, and should have breatheu
The open air and sunshine of the fields,
To give his blood its natural spring and play,
He in a close and dusky counting-house
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