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XVI.

No swinging sign-board creaked from cottage elm
To stay his steps with faintness overcome;
'Twas dark and void as ocean's watery realm
Roaring with storms beneath night's starless gloom;
No gipsy cower'd o'er fire of furze or broom;
No labourer watched his red kiln glaring bright,
Nor taper glimmered dim from sick man's room;
Along the waste no line of mournful light
From lamp of lonely toll-gate streamed athwart the

night.

XVIII.

Though he had little cause to love the abode
Of man, or covet sight of mortal face,
Yet when faint beams of light that ruin showed,
How glad he was at length to find some trace
Of human shelter in that dreary place!
Till to his flock the early shepherd goes,
Here shall much-needed sleep his frame embrace.
In a dry nook where fern the floor bestrows
He lays his stiffened limbs, - his eyes begin to close;

XVII.

At length, though hid in clouds, the moon arose ;
The downs were visible-and now revealed
A structure stands, which two bare slopes enclose.
It was a spot, where, ancient vows fulfilled,

Kind pious hands did to the virgin build

A lonely spital, the belated swain

From the night terrors of that waste to shield:

But there no human being could remain,

And now the walls are named the "Dead House" of the To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed,
And in his hearing there my prayers I said:
And afterwards, by my good father taught,

plain.

I read, and loved the books in which I read;
For books in every neighbouring house I sought,
And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought.

Her he addressed in words of cheering sound.
Recovering heart, like answer did she make;
And well it was that, of the corse there found,
In converse that ensued she nothing spake;
She knew not what dire pangs in him such tale could
wake.

XX.

Had heard of one who, forced from storms to shroud,
Felt the loose walls of this decayed retreat
Rock to incessant neighings shrill and loud,
While his horse pawed the floor with furious heat;
Till on a stone, that sparkled to his feet,
Struck, and still struck again, the troubled horse:
The man half raised the stone with pain and sweat,
Half raised, for well his arm might lose its force
Disclosing the grim head of a late murdered corse.

XXII.

But soon his voice and words of kind intent
Banished that dismal thought; and now the wind
In fainter howlings told its rage was spent:

Meanwhile discourse ensued of various kind,
Which by degrees a confidence of mind
And mutual interest failed not to create,
And, to a natural sympathy resigned,
In that forsaken building where they sate
The woman thus retraced her own untoward fate.

XXI.

Such tale of this lone mansion she had learned,
And, when that shape, with eyes in sleep half drowned,
By the moon's sullen lamp she first discerned,
Cold stony horror all her senses bound.

XIX.

When hearing a deep sigh, that seemed to come
From one who mourned in sleep, he raised his head,
And saw a woman in the naked room
Outstretched, and turning on a restless bed:
The moon a wan dead light around her shed.

He waked her spake in tone that would not fail,
He hoped, to calm her mind; but ill he sped,
For of that ruin she had heard a tale

The staff I well remember which upbore
The bending body of my active sire;
His seat beneath the honied sycamore

Where the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire; Which now with freezing thoughts did all her powers When market-morning came, the neat attire

assail;

With which, though bent on haste, myself I decked;
Our watchful house-dog, that would tease and tire
The stranger till its barking fit I checked;

The red-breast, known for years, which at my casement
pecked.

XXIII.

"By Derwent's side my father dwelt — a man
Of virtuous life, by pious parents bred;
And I believe that, soon as I began

XXIV

A little croft we owned -a plot of corn,

A garden stored with peas, and m., and thyme,
And flowers for posies, oft on Sunday morn
Plucked while the church bells rang their earliest chime.
Can I forget our freaks at shearing time!

My hen's rich nest through long grass scarce espied;
The cowslip's gathering in June's dewy prime;
The swans that with white chests upreared in pride
Rushing and racing came to meet me at the water-side'

XXV.

XXVI.

The suns of twenty summers danced along,-
Too little marked how fast they rolled away:
But, through severe mischance and cruel wrong,
My father's substance fell into decay:
We toiled and struggled, hoping for a day
When fortune might put on a kinder look;
But vain were wishes, efforts vain as they;
He from his old hereditary nook

Must part; the summons came; – our final leave we

took.

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XXXI.

"Twas a hard change; an evil time was come;
We had no hope, and no relief could gain:
But soon, with proud parade, the noisy drum
Beat round to clear the streets of want and pain.
My husband's arms now only served to strain
Me and his children hungering in his view;

In such dismay my prayers and tears were vain:
To join those miserable men he flew,

And now to the sea-coast, with numbers more, we drew.

XXXII.

There were we long neglected, and we bore
Much sorrow ere the fleet its anchor weighed;
Green fields before us, and our native shore,
We breathed a pestilential air, that made

F

Ravage for which no knell was heard. We prayed
For our departure; wished and wished-nor knew,
'Mid that long sickness and those hopes delayed,
That happier days we never more must view.
The parting signal streamed-at last the land withdrew.

XXXIII.

But the calm summer season now was past.
On as we drove, the equinoctia deep
Ran mountains high before tne howling blast,
And many perished in the whirlwind's sweep.
We gazed with terror on their gloomy sleep,
Untaught that soon such anguish must ersue,
Our hopes such harvest of affliction reap,
"That we the mercy of the waves should ru>:
We reached the western world, a poor devoted crew.

XXX.

We lived in peace and comfort; and were blest
With daily bread, by constant toil supplied.
Three lovely babes had laid upon my breast;
And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed,
And knew not why. My happy father died,
When threatened war reduced the children's meal:
Thrice happy! that for him the grave could hide
The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel,
And tears that flowed for ills which patience might not Over her brow, like dawn of gladness threw;

XXXVI.

"O come," he cried, "come, after weary night
Of such rough storm, this happy change to view."
So forth she came, and eastward looked; the sight

heal.

Upon her cheek, to which its youthful hue
Seemed to return, dried the last lingering tear,
And from her grateful heart a fresh one drew:
The whilst her comrade to her pensive cheer
Tempered fit words of hope; and the lark warbled

XXXIV.

The pains and plagues that on our heads came down
Disease and famine, agony and fear,

In wood or wilderness, in camp or town,
It would unman the firmest heart to hear.
All perished-all in one remorseless year,
Husband and children! one by one, by sword
And ravenous plague, all perished: every tear
Dried up, despairing, desolate, on board

A British ship I waked, as from a trance restored."

XXXV.

Here paused she of all present thought forlorn,
Nor voice, nor sound, that moment's pain expressed
Yet nature, with excess of grief o'erborne,
From her full eyes their watery load released.
He too was mute; and, ere her weeping ceased,
He rose, and to the ruin's portal went,
And saw the dawn opening the silvery east
With rays of promise, north and southward sent;
And soon with crimson fire kindled the firmament.

near.

XXXVII.

They looked, and saw a lengthening road, and wain
That rang down a bare slope not far remote:
The barrows glistered bright with drops of rain,
Whistled the wagoner with merry note,

The cock far off sounded his clarion throat;
But town, or farm, or hamlet, none they viewed,
Only were told there stood a lonely cot

A long, mile thence. While thither they pursued
Their way, the Woman thus her mournful tale renewed

*

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XLI.

And oft I thought (my fancy was so strong)
That I, at last, a resting-place had found;
'Here will I dwell,' said I, my whole life long,
Roaming the illimitable waters round;
Here will I live, of all but heaven disowned,
And end my days upon the peaceful flood.'—
To break my dream the vessel reached its bound;
And homeless near a thousand homes I stood,
And near a thousand tables pined and wanted food.

XLII.

No help I sought, in sorrow turned adrift,
Was hopeless, as if cast on some bare rock;
Nor morsel to my mouth that day did lift,
Nor raised my hand at any door to knock.
I lay where, with his drowsy mates, the cock
From the cross-timber of an outhouse hung:
Dismally tolled, that night, the city clock!
At morn my sick heart hunger scarcely stung,
Nor to the beggar's language could I fit my tongue.

XL.

Some mighty gulf of separation past,
I seemed transported to another world;

A thought resigned with pain, when from the mast
The impatient mariner the sail unfurled,
And, whistling, called the wind that hardly curled
The silent sea. From the sweet thoughts of home
And from all hope I was for ever hurled.
For me-farthest from earthly port to roam

XLVI.

Rough potters seemed they, trading soberly
With panniered asses driven from door to door;

Was best, could I but shun the spot where man might But life of happier sort set forth to me,

come.

XLIII.

So passed a second day; and, when the third
Was come, I tried in vain the crowd's resort.

There, pains which nature could no more support,
With blindness linked, did on my vitals fa?!;
And, after many interruptions short

Of hideous sense,
I sank, nor step could crawl:
Unsought for was the help that did my life recal.

In deep despair, by frightful wishes stirred, far the sea-side I reached a ruined fort;

XLIV.

Borne to a hospital, I lay with brain
Drowsy and weak, and shattered memory;

I heard my neighbours in their beds complain
Of many things which never troubled me-
Of feet still bustling round with busy glee,
Of looks where common kindness had no part,
Of service done with cold formality,
Fretting the fever round the languid heart,
And groans which, as they said, might make a dead
man start.

XLV.

These things just served to stir the slumbering sense,
Nor pain nor pity in my bosom raised.
With strength did memory return; and, thence
Dismissed, again on open day I gazed,

At houses, men, and common light, amazed.
The lanes I sought, and, as the sun retired,
Came where beneath the trees a faggot blazed:
The travellers saw me weep, my fate inquired,
And gave me food-and rest, more welcome, more desired.

And other joys my fancy to allure —
The bag-pipe dinning on the midnight moor
In barn uplighted; and companions boon,
Well met from far with revelry secure
Among the forest glades, while jocund June
Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon.

XLVII.

But ill they suited me-those journeys dark
O'er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch!
To charm the surly house-dog's faithful bark,
Or hang on tip-toe at the lifted latch.

The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match,
The black disguise, the warning whistle shrill,
And ear still busy on its nightly watch,
Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill:
Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were brooding
still.

XLVIII.

What could I do, unaided and unblest?

My father! gone was every friend of thine
And kindred of dead husband are at best
Small help; and, after marriage such as mine,
With little kindness would to me incline
Nor was I then for toil or service fit;
My deep-drawn sighs no effort could confive
In open air forgetful would I sit

Whole hours, with idle arms in moping sorrow till.

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