In sickness she remained; 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

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To thank him for the tale which he had told.

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I stood, and leaning o'er the garden wall

Reviewed that Woman's sufferings; and it seemed

To comfort me while with a brother's love
I blessed her in the impotence of grief.

Then towards the cottage I returned; and traced

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Fondly, though with an interest more mild,

That secret spirit of humanity

Which, 'mid the calm, oblivious tendencies

Of nature, 'mid her plants, and weeds, and flowers,

And silent overgrowings, still survived.

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The old Man, noting this, resumed, and said,

"My Friend! enough to sorrow you have given, The purposes of wisdom ask no more:

Nor more would she have craved as due to One

Who, in her worst distress, had ofttimes felt

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The unbounded might of prayer; and learned, with soul

Fixed on the Cross, that consolation springs,

From sources deeper far than deepest pain,

For the meek Sufferer. Why then should we read

The forms of things with an unworthy eye?

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She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is here.

I well remember that those very plumes,

Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on that wall,

By mist and silent rain-drops silvered o'er,

As once I passed, into my heart conveyed

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So still an image of tranquillity,

So calm and still, and looked so beautiful

Amid the uneasy thoughts which filled my mind,
That what we feel of sorrow and despair
From ruin and from change, and all the grief
That passing shows of Being leave behind,
Appeared an idle dream, that could maintain,
Nowhere, dominion o'er the enlightened spirit
Whose meditative sympathies repose
Upon the breast of Faith. I turned away,
And walked 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,
Admonished 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, grasped his staff;
Together casting then a farewell look
Upon those silent walls, we left the shade;
And, ere the stars were visible, had reached
A village-inn, our evening resting-place.

1795-1798.

THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN.

Ar the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three

years:

Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard

In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.

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'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,
Down which she so often has tripped with her pail ;
And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,
The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.

She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade,
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade :
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
And the colours have all passed away from her eyes!

1797.

5

ΙΟ

15

A NIGHT-PIECE.

THE sky is overcast,

With a continuous cloud of texture close,
Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon,
Which through that veil is indistinctly seen,
A dull, contracted circle, yielding light
So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls,

Chequering the ground-from rock, plant, tree, or tower.
At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam

Startles the pensive traveller while he treads
His lonesome path, with unobserving eye
Bent earthwards; he looks up

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the clouds are split

Asunder, and above his head he sees

The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens.
There, in a black-blue vault she sails along,
Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small

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And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss
Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away,
Yet vanish not ! — the wind is in the tree,

But they are silent; - still they roll along
Immeasurably distant; and the vault,

Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds,
Still deepens its unfathomable depth.

At length the Vision closes; and the mind,
Not undisturbed by the delight it feels,
Which slowly settles into peaceful calm,
Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.

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"Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How many may you be?

ee

How many? Seven in all," she said

And wondering looked at me.

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"And where are they?

I pray you tell."
She answered, "Seven are we ;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"

The little maid replied,

"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,

And they are side by side

"My stockings there I often knit,

My kerchief there I hem ;

And there upon the ground I sit,

And sing a song to them.

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