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There let the relic lie-foud thought-vain words!
Forgive them-never did my steps approach
This lumble door but she who dwelt within
A daughter's welcome gave me, and I loved hier
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 llath bless'd poor Margaret for her gentle looks, When she uplıc!d the cool refreshment drawn From that forsaken Spring; and no one came But he was welcome; no one went away But that it secmd she loved him. She is dead, The light extinguishid of her lonely liut, The Hut itself abandon'd to decay, and She forgotten in the quiet grave!

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

lle rose,

So was fle framed; and such his course of life
Who

now, with no Appendage but a Staff
The prized memorial of relinquished toils,
Upon that Collage bench reposcd his limbs,
Screen'd from the sun. Supine the Wanderer lay,
His

eyes as if iu drowsiness balf 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 bat
Was moist with water-drops, as if the brim
llad newly scoop'd a running stream.
And crc our lively greeting into peace
Had settled, «Tis,» said I, « a buroing day;
My lips are parchid with thirst, but you,

it seems,
Have somewhere found relief.» He, at the word,
Pointing towards a swect-briar, bade me climb
The fence where that aspiring shrub look'd out
Upon the public way. Il was a plot
Of garden-ground run wild, ils 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 froin their leatless stems
In scanty strings, liad icmpted to o erleap
The broken wall. I look'd around, and there,
Where two tall hedge-rows of thick alder bouglas
Join'd in a cold damp nook, espied a Well
Shrouded withi willow-lowers and plumy fera.
My thirst I slaked, and from the cheerless spot
Withdrawing, straight way to the shade return'd
Where satc the Old Man on the Costage bench;
And, while, beside liim, with uncover'd head,
I yet was standing, freely to respire,
And cool my teinples in the fannin; air,
Thus did lic speak. «I see around me here
Things which you cannot sce: we die, my Friend,
Nor we alone, but that which each man loved
And prized in his peculiar nnok of cartha
Dies with him, or is changed; and very soon
Even of the good is go meinorial left.

- The Poets, in their elegics and songs Lamenting the departed, call the groves, They call upon the bills and streams to mourn, And senseless rocks; nor idly; for thcy 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 brotherliood is broken : time has been When, every day, the touch of human hand Dislodged the natural sleep that binds them up Jo 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 ihe Elements :

« I speak,» continucd he, « of One whose stock Of virtues bloonied 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 ou his side The humble worth that satisfied her leart: Frugal, affectionate, sober, and withal Keenly industrious. She with pride would tell That he was often sealed at his loom, in summer, ere the Mower was abroad Among the dewy grass,-in early spring, Ere the last Star had vanishd.--They who passid At evening, from behind the garden feuce Might hear his busy spade, which he would ply, After liis daily work, until the liglie Had faild, and every leaf and flower were lost In the dark hedges. So their days were spent In peace and comfort ; and a prelly Boy Was their best hope,-next to the God in ilearen.

« 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 barrest. It pleased Heaven to add A worse afllicriou in the plague of war; This happy Land was stricken to the heart! A Wanderer then among the Cottages 1, with my freight of winter raiment, saw The hardships of that season; many rich Saok down, as in a dream, among the poor; And of the poor did many cease to be, And their place knew them not. Meanwhile, abridge Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled To numerous self-denials, Margaret Went struggling on through those calamitous years With clieerful bope, until the second autumu, When her life's lielpmate on a sick-bed lay, Smitten with perilous fever. In disease le linger'd long; and when his strength returnd, lle 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 irrisans

From ill requited labour turn'd adrift

A heart-felt chillness crept along my veins.
Sought daily bread from public charity,

I rose ; and, having left the breezy shade,
They, and their wives and childreo-happier far Stood drinking comfort from the warmer sun,
Could they have lived as do the little birds

That had not cheer'd me long-cre, looking round
That peck along the hedge-rows, or the Kite

Upon that tranquil Ruin, I return d,
That makes her dwelling on the mountain Rocks! And becc'd of the Old Man that, for my sake,

lle would resume his story. A sad reverse it was for llim who long

He replied, Had ailld with plenty, and possess d in peace,

« It were a wantonness, and would demand This lonely Cottage. At his door he stood,

Severe reproof, if we were Men whose hearts And whistled many a snatch of merry tunes

Could hold vain dalliance with the misery That had no mirth in them; or with his knife

Even of the dead; contented thence to draw Carved uncouth figures on the heads of sticks

A momentary pleasure, never mark'd Then, not less idly, sought, through every nook Dy reason, barren of all future good. lo house or garden, any casual work

But we have known that there is often found Of use or ornament; and with a strange,

In mournful thoughts, and always might be found, Amusing, yei uneasy novelty,

A power to virtue friendly; were 't not so, He blended, where he might, the various tasks

I am a Dreamer among men, indeed Of summer, autumn, winter, and of spring.

An idle Dreamer! 'T is a common Tale, But this endured not; his good humour soon

An ordinary sorrow of Man's life, Became a weight in which no pleasure was;

A tale of silent suffering, hardly clothed And poverty brought on a pelted mood

In bodily form.—But, without further bidding, And a sore temper : day by day he droop'd,

I will proceed. Vad he would leave his work-and to the Town,

While thus it fared with them, Without an errand, would direct his steps,

To whom this Cottage, will those hapless years, Or wander here and there among the fields.

llad been a blessed home, it was my chance One while he would speak lightly of his Babes, To travel in a Country far remote ; And with a cruel tongue: at other times

And when these lofty Elms once more appeard, He foss'd them with a false unnatural joy :

What pleasant expectations lured me on ind i was a rueful thing to see the looks

O'er the flat Common !- With quick step I reaclia Of the poor innocent children. “Every smile,'

The threshold, lifted with light hand the latch; Said Margaret to me, here beneath these trees,

But, when I entered, Margaret lookd at me * Made my heart bleed.'»

A little while; then turnd her head away

Speechless, -and sitting down upon a chair
At this the Wanderer paused; Wept bitterly. I wist not what to do,
And, looking up to those enormous Elms,

Or how to speak to her. Poor Wretch! at last lle said, - T is now the hour of deepest noon.

She rose from off her seat, and theu,-0 Sir
At this still season of repose and peace,

I cannot tell how she pronounced my name. --
Thats hour, when all things which are not at rest Withi fervent love, and with a face of grief
Are cheerful ; while this multitude of flies

i'mutterably helpless, and a look Is filiog all the air with melody;

That seemd to cling upon me, she inquired
Why should a tear be in an Old Man's eye?

If I had seen her Husband. As she spake
Why should we thus, with ap untoward mind, A strange surprise and fear came to my heart,
And in the weakness of humanity,

Nor had I power to answer ere she told irom natural wisdom turn our bearts away,

That he had disappeard-not two months gone. To natural comfort shut our eyes and ears,

Ile left his llouse : (wo wretched days had passed,
And, feeding on disquiet, thus disturb

And on the third, as wistfully she raised
The calm of nature with our restless thoughts ?»» ller bead 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
Na spake with somewhat of a solemo tone :

To meet ber waking eyes. This tremblingly ful, when he ended, there was in his face

She open'd- found no writing, but beheld Suets easy cheerfulness, a look so mild,

Pieces of money carefully enclosed, That for a little time it stole away

Silver and gold. —'I shudder'd at Vie sight,' ul recollection, and that simple Tale

Said Margaret,' for I kuew it was luis hand Paud from my mind like a forgotten sound.

Which placed it there: and ere that day was ended, Awlie og trivial things we held discourse,

That long and anxious day! I learned from One To me soon tasteless. To my own despite,

Sent hither by my Husband to impart I thought of that poor Woman as of one

The heavy news, -that he had join'd a Troop but I had known and loved. He had rehcarsed Of Soldiers, going to a distant Land, Jer homely Tale with such familiar power,

--He left me thus-- he could not gather heart With such an active countenance, an eye

To take a farcwell of me; for be feard so busy, that thic things of which he spake

That I should follow with my Babes, and sink seem'd present; and, attention now relaxd,

Deneath the misery of that wandering Life.'

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« 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 bo! :- but long we had not talki 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 lier busy with her garden tools ; And well remember, o'er that feuce 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 liappy 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, To 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. Ver Cottage, then a cheerful Object, wore les customary look,-only, it seemd, The lioneysuckle, 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'ü aside, And strolld into her garden. It appear'd To lag behind the season, and had lost Its pride of neatness. Daisy-flow'rs and thrift llad broken their trim lines, and straggled o'er The patis 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 pease, And drago'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, lle said that she was used to ramble far.The sun was sioking in the west ; and now I sate with sad impaticnce. From within ller solitary Infant cried aloud; Then, like a blast that dies away self-still'd, The voice was silen From the bench I rose; But neither could divert nor soothe my thoughts. The spot, thouglı fair, was very desolateThe longer I remaind more desolate : And, looking round me, now I first observed The corner stones, on either side the porcli, With dull red stajas discolourd, and stuck o'er With tufts and hairs of wool, as if the Sheep, That fed upon the Common, thither came

Familiariy; and found a couching-place Evco 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. ller face was pale and thin, her figure 100 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-lo my shame I speak-have nerd 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 handsThat she had parted with hier elder Child; To a kind master on a distant farm Now happily apprenticed.—'I perceive You look at me, and you have cause ; 10-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 ain changed ; And to myself,' said slıe, ‘have done much wrong And to his helpless Infant. I have slept Weeping, and weeping bave I waked; my tears Have flow'd as if my body were not such As others are; and I could never die. Piut i am now in mind and in my heart More

easy; and I hope,' said she, that leaven
Will give me patience to endure the things
Which I behold at home.' II would liave grieved
Your very soul to see hier; 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
ller goodness, thal, 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
in human life, or something very bear
To human life, wheu 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 dowoward cast;
And, when she at her table gave me food,
She did not look at me. Iler voice was low,
Her body was subducd. lu every act
Pertaining to her house affairs, oppeard
The careless stillness of a thinking mind
Self-occupied : to which all outward things
dre like an idle matter, Sull she sich'd,
But yet no morion of the breast was seen,
No heaving of the heart. While by the fire
We sate together, sighis came on my ear,
I knew not how, and hardly whence they came.

« Erc
my departure, to her care I

gave,
For her Son's use, some tokens of regard,
Wuch with a look of welcome she received;
And I exborted her to place her trust
In God's good love, and seek bis help by prayer.
I took my staff, and when I kissd her babe
The tears slood in her eyes. I left her then
With the best hope and comfort I could give;

She thaok'd me for my wish ;- but for my liope That in yon arbour oftentimes she sate
Methought she did not thank me.

Alone, through half the vacant Sabbath-day;
I return'd,

And, if a dog pass'd by, she still would quit
And took my rounds along this road again

The shade, and look abroad. On this old Bench Ere op its subny baok the primrose tlower

For hours she sale; and evermore her eye Peep'd forth, to give an earnest of the Spring.

Was busy in the distance, shaping things I found ber sad and drooping; she had learn'd That made her heart beat quick. You see that path, No tidings of her Hu-band; if lie lived,

Now faint, -the grass has crept o'er its grey line; She knew not that he lived ; if he were dead,

There, to and fro, she paced through many a day She knew not he was dead. She seem'd the same Of the warm summer, from a belt of hemp In person and appearance; but her House

That girt her waist, spinning the long drawn thread Bespake a sleepy hand of negligence;

With backward steps. Yet ever as there pass'd The floor was ncither dry nor neat, the hearth

A man whose garments shew'd the Soldier's red, Was comfortless, and her small lot of books,

Or crippled Mendicant in Sailor's garb, Which, in the Cottage window, heretofore

The little Child who sate to turn the wheel Had been piled up against the corner panes

Ceased from his task; and she with faltering voice In seemly order, pow, with straggling leaves

Made many a fond inquiry; and when tbey, Lay scattered here and there, open or shut,

Whose presence gave no comfort, were gone by, As they had chanced to fall. Her infant Babe

Her heart was still more sad. And by yon gate, Had from its Mother caught the trick of grief,

That bars the Traveller's road, she often stood, And sieh d among its playthings. Once again

And when a stranger Horseman came, the latch I torned towards the garden gate, and saw,

Would lift, and in his face look wistfully: More plainly still, that poverty and grief

Most happy, if, from aucht discover'd there
Were now come nearer to her : weeds defaced Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat
The barden'd soil, and knots of withered grass : The same sad question. Meanwhile her poor Hut
No ridges there appeard of clear black mold,

Sank to decay: for he was gone, whose hand,
No winter greepness; of her herbs and flowers, At the first nipping of October frost,
It seem'd the better part were goaw'd away

Closed up each chink, and with fresh bands of straw Or trampled into carth; a chain of straw,

Chequer'd the green-grown thatch. And so she lived Which had been twined about the slender stem Through the long winter, reckless and alone; Of a young apple-tree, lay at its root,

Until her House by frost, and thaw, and rain, The bark was nibbled round by truant Sheep.

Was sapp'd; and while she slept the nightly damps - Margaret stood near, her Infant in her arms, Did chill her breast; and in the stormy day And, noting that my eye was on the tree,

Her tatter'd clothes were ruftled by the wind; She said, 'I fear it will be dead and gone

Even at the side of her own fire. Yet still Ere Robert come again.' Towards the House

She loved this wretched spot, nor would for worlds Together we return d; and she inquired

Have parted hence; and still that length of road, If I had any hope :- but for her Babe

And this rude bench, one torturing hope endeard, And for her little orphan Boy, she said,

Fast rooted at her heart: and here, my Friend, She had no wish to live, that she must die

in sickness she remaind; and here she died, Of sorrow. Yet I saw the idle loom

Last human Tenant of these ruined Walls.» Suil in its place; his Sunday garments hung ['pon the self-sime pal; his very

staff

The Old Man ceased : he saw that I was moved; Stood undisturb'd behind the door. And when,

From that low Bench, rising instinctively la bleak December, I retraced this way,

I turned aside in weakness, nor bad power She told me that her little Babe was dead,

To thank him for the Tale which he had told. Aod she was left alone. She now, released

I stood, and leaning o'er the Garden wall, From ber maternal cares, had taken up

Review'd that Woman's sufferings; and it seem'd The employment common through these Wilds,andgain'd To comfort me while with a Brother's love By spinning hemp a pittance for herself ;

I bless'd her-in the impotence of grief. And for this end had hired a neighbour's Boy

de length towards the Cottage I return'd To give ber needful help. That very time

Foodly, and traced, with interest more mild, Most willingly she put her work aside,

That secret spirit of humanity And walk'd with me along the miry road,

Which, inid the calm oblivious tendencies Ieedless how far; and in such piteous sort

Of nature, mid her plants, and weeds, and flowers, That any heart had ached to hear her, begg'd

And silent overgrowings, still survived. Thai, wberesoe'er I went, I still would ask

The Old Man, noting this, resumed, and said, For him whom she had lost. We parted then

My Friend! enouglı to sorrow you have given, Our final parting; for from that time forth

The purposes of wisdom ask no more; Did many seasons pass ere I return'd

Be wise and cheerful; and no longer read loto this tract again.

The forms of things with an unworthy eye.
Nine tedious years;

She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is here. From their first separation, nine long years,

I well remember that those very plumes, She linger'd in unquiet widowhood;

Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on that wall, A Wife and Widow. Needs must it have been Dy mist and silent raio-drops silver'd o'er, A sore heart-wasting! I have heard, my Friend, As once I pass d, did to my heart convey

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So still an image of tranquillity,

Or haply slırouded in a llermits cell. So calm and still, and look'd so beautiful

Him, sleeping or awake, the Robber spared; Amid the uneasy thoughts which fill'd my mind, He walk'd-protected from the sword of war That what we feel of sorrow and despair

By virtue of that sacred Instrument From ruin and from change, and all the grief

His llarp, suspended at the Traveller's side; The passing shows of Being leave behind,

His dear Companjou wheresoe'er he went
Appeard an idle dream, that could not live

Opening from Laud to Land an easy way
I'here meditation was.
I turn'd away,

By melody, and by the charm of verse.
And walk'd along my road in happiness.»

Yet not the noblest of that honourd Race

Drew happier, loftier, more impassiou'd thoughts He ceased. Ere long the sun declining shot

From his long journeyings and eveptful life, A slant and mellow radiance, which began

Than this obscure Itineranı had skill To fall upon us, while, beneath the trees,

To gather, ranging through the tamer ground We sate on that low Bench: and now we felt,

Of these our unimaginative days; Admonish d thus, the sweet hour coming on.

Both while he trod the earth in humblest guise Alinnet warbled from those lofty elms,

Accoutred with bis burthen and his stuff;
A thrush sang loud, and other melodies,

And now, when free to move with lighter pace.
At distance beard, peopled the milder air.
The Old Man rose, and, with a sprightly mien

What wonder, then, if I, whose favourite School Of hopeful preparation, grasp'd his Staff:

llath been the fields, the roads, and rural lanes, Together casting thien a farewell look

Look'd on this Guide with reverential love? Upon those silent walls, we left the Shade;

Each with the other pleased, we now pursued And, ere the Stars were visible, had reach'd

Our journey-bencath favourable skics,
A Village Inn, -our Evening resting place.

Turo wheresoe'er we would, he was a light
Unfailing: not a Hamlet could we pass,

Rarely a House, that did not yield to him
BOOK II.

Remembrances; or from his congue call forth
Some way.beguiling tale.

Nor less regard
Accompanied those strains of apt discourse,

Which Nature's various objects miglat inspire;
ARGUMENT.

And in the silence of his face I read
The Author describes his travels with the Wanderer, Ilis overtlowing spirit. Birds and beasis,
whose character is further illustrated – Morning And the mute fisia that

jo the stream, scene, and view of a Village Wake – Wanderer's And harmless repuile coiling in the sun, account of a Friend whom he purposes to visit - And gorgeous insect bovering in the air, View, from an eminence, of the Valley which bis The fowl domestic, and the houschold 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 lierul of a Book accidentally discovered in a recess in the To happy contemplation soothed his walk; 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 lis course of sufferiag in the public road, in this mountainous district -- Solitary coatrasts with Sad contrast! all too often smote his heart this, that of the lodividual carried a few minutes be- ' With unavailing pity. Rich in love fore from the Cottage — Brief conversation - The And sweet humanity, he was, himself, Collage entered — description of the Solitary's apart- To the degree that he desired, beloved.

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 Ry many a cottage hearth, where be received
the departed Inmate of the Cottage - description of the welcome of an Jumate come from far.
a grand spectacle upon the mountains, with its effect - Nor was lie loth to enter ragged luts,
upon the Solitary's mind Quit the llouse.

Buts where his cliarity was blest; his voice
Ilcard as the voice of an experienced Friend,

And, sometimes, where the Poor Man lield dispute
THE SOLITARY.

With his own mind, unable to subdue In days of yore how fortunately fared

impatience througla inapiness to perceive The Minstrel! wandering on from Gall to Hall, General distress in his particular lor; Baronial Court or Royal; cheer'd with gifts

Or cherishing reseniment, or in vain Munificent, and love, and Ladies' praise;

Struggling against it, with a soul perplex'd, Now meeting on his road an armed knight,

And finding in herself no steady power Now resting with a Pilgrim by the side

To draw the line of comfort that divides Of a clear brook ;-beneatlı an Abbey's roof

Calamity, the chastisement of Heaven, Onc evening sumptuously lodged; the next

From the injustice of our brother men; 1 llumbly, in a religious Hospital;

To llim appcal was made as to a judge; Or with some merry Outlaws of the wood;

Who, with an understanding hert, allay'd

ment

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