And this rude bench, one torturing hope endeared, 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 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. At length towards the Cottage I returned Fondly, and traced, with interest more mild, Which, 'mid the calm oblivious tendencies Of Nature, 'mid her plants, and weeds, and flowers, And silent overgrowings, still survived. The old Man, noting this, resumed, and said, "My Friend, enough to sorrow you have given, The purposes of wisdom ask no more: Be wise and cheerful; and no longer read The forms of things with an unworthy eye. She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is here. Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on that wall, By mist and silent rain-drops silvered o'er, As once I passed, did to my heart convey So still an image of tranquillity, So calm and still, and looked so beautiful Amid the uneasy thoughts which filled my mind, From ruin and from change, and all the grief And walked along my road in happiness." He ceased. Ere long the sun declining shot 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. IN days of yore how fortunately fared Or with some merry outlaws of the wood; Yet not the noblest of that honoured Race Drew happier, loftier, more impassioned thoughts |