This happy Land was stricken to the heart!
A Wanderer then among the cottages,
I, with my freight of winter raiment, saw
The hardships of that season: many rich
Sank down, as in a dream, among the poor;
And of the poor did many cease to be,

And their place knew them not. Meanwhile, abridged
Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled

To numerous self-denials, Margaret

Went struggling on through those calamitous years
With cheerful hope, but ere the second autumn,
Her life's true Helpmate on a sick-bed lay,
Smitten with perilous fever. In disease

He lingered long; and when his strength returned,
He found the little he had stored, to meet
The hour of accident or crippling age,

Was all consumed. Two children had they now,
One newly-born. As I have said, it was
A time, for them and all of their degree,
Laden with trouble: shoals of artisans
Were from their daily labour turned adrift
To seek their bread from public charity,
They, and their wives and children-happier far
Could they have lived as do the little birds
That peck along the hedges, or the kite
That makes his dwelling on the mountain rocks!

A sad reverse it was for him who long
Had filled with plenty, and possessed in peace,
This lonely Cottage. At his door he stood,
And whistled many a snatch of merry tunes
That had no mirth in them; or with his knife
Carved uncouth figures on the heads of sticks---
Then, not less idly, sought, through every nook
In house or garden, any casual work

Of use or ornament; and with a strange,
Amusing, yet uneasy, novelty,

He blended, where he might, the various tasks
Of summer, autumn, winter, and of spring.
But this endured not; his good humour soon
Became a weight on which no pleasure was:
And poverty brought on a petted mood
And a sore temper; day by day he drooped,
And he would leave his work-and to the town
Without an errand would direct his steps;
Or wander here and there among the fields.
One while he would speak lightly of his babes,
And with a cruel tongue: at other times
He tossed them with a false unnatural joy:
And 'twas a rueful thing to see the looks
Of the poor innocent children. 'Every smile,'
Said Margaret to me here beneath these trees,
Made my heart bleed.''

.

At this the Wanderer paused;
And, looking up to those enormous elms,
He said, ""Tis now the hour of deepest noon.
At this still season of repose and peace,
This hour when all things which are not at rest
Are cheerful; while this multitude of flies
Is filling all the air with melody;

Why should a tear be in an old Man's eye?
Why should we thus, with an untoward mind,
And in the weakness of humanity,

From natural wisdom turn our hearts away;
To natural comfort shut our eyes and ears;
And, feeding on disquiet, thus disturb

The calm of nature with our restless thoughts?"

HE spake with somewhat of a solemn tone:
But, when he ended, there was in his face
Such easy cheerfulness, a look so mild,
That for a little time it stole away

All recollection; and that simple tale

Passed from my mind like a forgotten sound.
A while on trivial things we held discourse,
To me soon tasteless. In my own despite,
I thought of that poor Woman as of one

Whom I had known and loved. He had rehearsed
Her homely tale with such familiar power,
With such an active countenance, an eye
So busy, that the things of which he spake
Seemed present; and, attention now relaxed,
There was a heartfelt chillness in my veins.
I rose; and, having left the breezy shade,
Stood drinking comfort from the warmer sun.
Long time I had not staid-ere, looking round
Upon that tranquil Ruin, I returned,

And begged of the old Man that, for my sake,
He would resume his story.

He replied,
"It were a wantonness, and would demand
Severe reproof, if we were men whose hearts
Could hold vain dalliance with the misery
Even of the dead; contented thence to draw
A momentary pleasure, never marked
By reason, barren of all future good.

But we have known that there is often found

In mournful thoughts, and always might be found,

A power to virtue friendly; were't not so,

I am a dreamer among men, indeed

An idle dreamer! 'Tis a common tale,

An ordinary sorrow of man's life,

A tale of silent suffering, hardly clothed
In bodily form.-But without further bidding
I will proceed.

While thus it fared with them,
To whom this cottage, till those hapless years,
Had been a blessed home, it was my chance
To travel in a country far remote;

And glad was I when halting by yon gate
That leads from the green lane, once more I saw
These lofty elm trees. Long I did not rest;
With many pleasant thoughts I cheered my way
O'er the flat common. Having reached the door
I knocked, and when I entered with the hope
Of usual greeting, Margaret looked at me
A little while; then turned her head away
Speechless, and, sitting down upon a chair,
Wept bitterly. I wist not what to do,

Or how to speak to her. Poor Wretch! at last
She rose from off her seat, and then,-O Sir!
I cannot tell how she pronounced my name:-
With fervent love, and with a face of grief
Unutterably helpless, and a look

That seemed to cling upon me, she inquired
If I had seen her husband. As she spake,
A strange surprise and fear came to my heart,
Nor had I power to answer ere she told
That he had disappeared-not two months gone.
He left the house: two wretched days had past,
And on the third, as wistfully she raised
Her head 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

To meet her waking eyes. This tremblingly
She opened-found no writing, but therein
Pieces of money carefully inclosed,

Silver and gold. 'I shuddered at the sight,'

Said Margaret, 'for I knew it was his hand

Which placed it there; and ere that day was ended,

That long and anxious day, I learned from one

Sent hither by my husband to impart

The heavy news, that he had joined a troop

Of soldiers, going to a distant land.

-He left me thus-he could not gather heart
To take a farewell of me; for he feared

That I should follow him with my babes, and sink
Beneath the misery of that wandering life.'

tears:

This tale did Margaret tell with many 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 both. But long we had not talked Ere we built up a pile of better thoughts, And with a brighter eye she looked around, As if she had been shedding tears of joy.

We parted. 'Twas the time of early spring;
I left her busy with her garden tools;

And well remember, o'er that fence she looked,
And, while I paced along the foot-way path,
Called out, and sent a blessing after me,
With tender cheerfulness, and with a voice
That seemed the very sound of happy thoughts.

I roved o'er many a hill and many a dale,
With my accustomed load; in heat and cold,
Through many a wood and many an open ground,
In 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 passed between, And disappeared.

I journeyed back this way,
Toward the wane of summer; when 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.
Her cottage, then a cheerful object, wore
Its customary look,-only, I thought,
The honeysuckle, crowding round the porch,
Hung down in heavier tufts; and that bright weed,
The yellow stone-crop, suffered to take root
Along the window's edge, profusely grew
Blinding the lower panes. I turned aside,
And strolled into her garden. It appeared
To lag behind the season, and had lost

Its pride of neatness. From the border lines,
Composed of daisy and resplendent thrift,

Flowers straggling forth had on these paths encroached,

Which they were 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 peas,
And dragged them to the earth.

Ere this an hour
Was wasted.-Back I turned my restless steps;
A stranger passed, and guessing whom I sought,
He said that she was used to ramble far.-
The sun was sinking in the west; and now
I sate with sad impatience. From within
Her solitary infant cried aloud;

Then, like a blast that dies away self-stilled,
The voice was silent. From the bench I rose;

But neither could divert nor soothe my thoughts.
The spot, though fair, was very desolate-
The longer I remained, more desolate:
And looking round, I saw the corner stones
Till then unnoticed, on either side the door,
With dull red stains discoloured, and stuck o'er
With tufts and hairs of wool, as if the sheep,
That fed upon the Common, thither came
Familiarly, and found a couching-place

Even at her threshold. Deeper shadows fell
From these tall elms; the cottage-clock struck eight:-
I turned, and saw her distant a few steps.
Her face was pale and thin-her figure, too,
Was changed. As she unlocked the door, she said,
'It grieves me you have waited here so long,
But, in good truth, I've wandered much of late;
And, sometimes-to my shame I speak-have need
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 hands-
That she had parted with her elder child;
To a kind master on a distant farm
Now happily apprenticed.-'I perceive
You look at me, and you have cause; to-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 am changed;
And to myself,' said she, 'have done much wrong
And to this helpless infant. I have slept

Weeping, and weeping have I waked; my tears
Have flowed as if my body were not such
As others are; and I could never die.
But I am now in mind and in my heart
More easy; and I hope,' said she, 'that Heaven
Will give me patience to endure the things
Which I behold at home.'

It would have grieved
Your very soul to see her. Sir, I feel
The story linger in my heart; I fear
'Tis 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
Her goodness, that, 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
To human life, or something very near
To human life, when he shall come again

For whom she suffered. Yes, it would have grieved