Of garden ground run wild, its matted weeds
Marked with the steps of those, whom, as they passed, The gooseberry trees that shot in long lank slips, Or currants, hanging from their leafless stems In scanty strings, had tempted to o'erleap1 The broken wall. I looked around, and there, Where two tall hedge-rows of thick alder boughs Joined in a cold damp nook, espied a well Shrouded with willow-flowers and plumy fern. My thirst I slaked, and, from the cheerless spot Withdrawing, straightway to the shade returned Where sate the old Man on the cottage-bench; And, while, beside him, with uncovered head, I yet was standing, freely to respire, And cool my temples in the fanning air, Thus did he speak. "I see around me here Things which you cannot see: we die, my Friend, Nor we alone, but that which each man loved And prized in his peculiar nook of earth Dies with him, or is changed; and very soon Even of the good is no memorial left.* -The Poets, in their elegies and songs Lamenting the departed, call the groves,
The fence hard by, where that aspiring shrub Looked out upon the road.
And to a sweet-briar pointing, bade me climb
The gooseberry-trees that showed their dwindled fruit Hanging in long lank slips, or leafless strings Of currants might have tempted to o'erleap
Compare "The good is oft interred with their bones."
Hamlet, Act iii. sc. 4.—ED.
They call upon the hills and streams to mourn,t And senseless rocks; nor idly; for they 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 seemed to feel
Of brotherhood is broken: time has been When, every day, the touch of human hand Dislodged the natural sleep that binds them up In mortal stillness; and they ministered To human comfort. Stooping down to drink,1 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 the elements: There let it lie-how foolish are such thoughts! Forgive them;-never-never did my steps Approach this door but she who dwelt within2
Green with the moss of years; a pensive sight That moved my heart !-recalling former days When I could never pass that road but She Who lived within these walls, at my approach Green with the moss of years, and subject only To the soft handling of the elements:
There let the relic lie-fond thought-vain words!
* See Moschus's epitaph on Bion, 1-7, beginning "Acλiva po σTOVAXÊLTE vámai kai Aúpeor towp; and compare Virgil, Ecl. V. 27, 28; Georg. I., 466-488; Georg. IV., 461-463; Catullus, Carmen XXXI., Ad sermonem Peninuslam, the three last lines. See also Note C in the appendix to this volume.-ED.
A daughter's welcome gave me, and I loved her As 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 Hath blessed poor Margaret for her gentle looks, When she upheld the cool refreshment drawn From that forsaken spring; and no one came But he was welcome; no one went away But that it seemed she loved him. She is dead, The light extinguished of her lonely hut, The hut itself abandoned to decay,
And she forgotten in the quiet grave.
I speak," continued he, "of One whose stock Of virtues bloomed 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 Being who by adding love to peace Might live on earth a life of happiness. Her wedded Partner lacked not on his side
Forgive them-never did my steps approach This humble door but she who dwelt therein
Forgive them ;-never-never did my steps Approach this door but she who dwelt within
Green with the moss of years. Upon the simple sight As there it lay I could not look unmoved!
Forgive the weakness-never did step of mine
Approach this door, but she
Compare ὧν οἱ θεοὶ φιλοῦσιν, αποθήσκει νέος. "Whom the gods love, die young."
Menander, quoted (amongst others) by Plutarch, Consol. ad Apollonium, For other authorities, see Meineke's Comicorum Græcorum
The humble worth that satisfied her heart: Frugal, affectionate, sober, and withal
Keenly industrious. She with pride would tell That he was often seated at his loom,*
In summer, ere the mower was abroad Among the dewy grass,-in early spring, Ere the last star had vanished. They who passed At evening, from behind the garden fence Might hear his busy spade, which he would ply, After his daily work, until the light
Had failed, and every leaf and flower were lost In the dark hedges. So their days were spent In peace and comfort; and a pretty boy Was their best hope, next to the God in heaven.
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 harvest. It pleased Heaven to add A worse affliction in the plague of war: 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, until the second autumn,
* The hand-loom was common in many of the cottages of the county, as well as in the manufacturing towns of England and Scotland, until quite recently.-ED.
When her life's Helpmate1 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. 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 artisans From ill-requited labour turned adrift Sought daily bread from public charity,2 They, and their wives and children-happier far Could they have lived as do the little birds That peck along the hedge-rows, or the kite That makes her dwelling on the mountain rocks! 3
A sad reverse it was for him who long Had filled with plenty, and possessed in peace, This lonely Cottage. At the door he stood,* And whistled many a snatch of merry tunes That had no mirth in them ;* or with his knife
Was all consumed. Two children had they now, One newly born. As I have said, it was A time of trouble; shoals of artisans Were from their daily labour turn'd adrift To seek their bread from public charity,
That peck along the hedges, or the Kite That makes his dwelling on the mountain Rocks! 1814.
At his door he stood, 1814.
* KλVÒVTES OŮK HKOVOV.-Æsch., Prom,, v. 447. S. Matt. xiii. 13-15. "Dead life, blind sight, poor mortal-living ghost."
-Shakespeare, Richard III., Act iv. Sc. 4.--ED.
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