Sidor som bilder
PDF
ePub

Years of fruitless

[ocr errors]

questioning

That in yon arbour oftentimes she sate
Alone, through half the vacant sabbath day;
And, if a dog passed by, she still would quit
The shade, and look abroad. On this old bench
For hours she sate; and evermore her
Was busy in the distance, shaping things
That made her heart beat quick. You see that
path,

eye 880

Now faint, the grass has crept o'er its grey

line;
There, to and fro, she paced through many a day
Of the warm summer, from a belt of hemp
That girt her waist, spinning the long-drawn
thread

With backward steps. Yet ever as there passed
A man whose garments showed the soldier's red,
Or crippled mendicant in sailor's garb,

The little child who sate to turn the wheel 890
Ceased from his task; and she with faltering
voice

Made many a fond enquiry; 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 discovered there
Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat
The same sad question. Meanwhile her poor

[ocr errors]

900

Hut
Sank to decay; for he was gone, whose hand,
At the first nipping of October frost,

The end Closed up each chink, and with fresh bands of

of the tale

straw

Chequered 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 sapped; and while she slept, the nightly
damps

Did chill her breast; and in the stormy day

Her tattered clothes were ruffled by the wind,
Even at the side of her own fire. Yet still 910
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
endeared,

Fast rooted at her heart and here, my
Friend,-

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
To thank him for the tale which he had told.
I stood, and leaning o'er the garden wall 921
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

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.

[ocr errors]

930

The old Man, noting this, resumed, and said,
My Friend! enough to sorrow you have given,
purposes of wisdom ask no more:

The

Nor more would she have craved as due to One
Who, in her worst distress, had ofttimes felt
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? 940
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
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 950
The passing shows of Being leave behind,
Appeared an idle dream, that could maintain
Nowhere dominion o'er the enlightened spirit
Whose meditative sympathies repose

Enough of sorrow

The Upon the breast of Faith. I turned away,
And walked along my road in happiness.'

birds'

evensong

22

He ceased. Ere long the sun declining shot
A slant and mellow radiance, which began
To fall upon us, while, beneath the trees, 959
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. 970

END OF THE FIRST BOOK.

[blocks in formation]
« FöregåendeFortsätt »