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,
When, in the warmth of midsummer, the wheat1
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, it seemed,2

The honeysuckle, crowding round the porch,

Hung down in heavier tufts; and that bright weed,

The yellow stone-crop,t suffered to take root

Along the window's edge, profusely grew,

Blinding the lower panes.

And strolled into her garden.

I turned aside,

It appeared

To lag behind the season, and had lost

Its pride of neatness. Daisy-flowers and thrift§

* "Adoun some trotting burn's meander."-BURNS.-ED. "Decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass."

-Lysander in Midsummer Night's Dream,

Sedum acre.—ED.

Act. i. Sc. i., 1. 211.-ED.

§ Statice armerium.-ED.

Had broken their trim border-lines, and straggled
O'er paths they used to deck:1 carnations, once
Prized for surpassing beauty, and no less
For the peculiar pains they had required,
Declined their languid heads, wanting 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;3 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 me, now I first observed
The corner stones, on either side the porch,*

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
I have slept

1

And to this helpless infant.

Weeping, and weeping have I waked; my tears 2
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 God 1
Will give me patience to endure the things

Which I behold at home.'

Your very soul to see her.

It would have grieved

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

Your very

soul to see her: evermore

eyelids drooped, her eyes downward were cast; 2 And, when she at her table gave me food,

She did not look at me.

Her body

Her voice was low,

was subdued. In every act

Pertaining to her house-affairs, appeared

The careless stillness of a thinking mind
Self-occupied; to which all outward things
Are like an idle matter.

Still she sighed,

But yet no motion of the breast was seen,

No heaving of the heart.

While by the fire

We sate together, sighs came on my ear,

I knew not how, and hardly whence they came.

11832.

21849.

that heaven

1814.

were downward cast;

1814.

Ere my departure, to her care I gave,
For her son's use, some tokens of regard,
Which with a look of welcome she received;
And I exhorted her to place her trust 1

In God's good love, and seek his help by prayer.
I took my staff, and, when I kissed her babe,
The tears stood in her eyes. I left her then
With the best hope and comfort I could give:
She thanked me for my wish;-but for my hope
It seemed2 she did not thank me.

I returned,

And took my rounds along this road again
When3 on its sunny bank the primrose flower
Peeped forth, to give an earnest of the Spring.
I found her sad and drooping: she had learned
No tidings of her husband; if he lived,*

She knew not that he lived; if he were dead,
She knew not he was dead. She seemed the same
In person and appearance; but her house

Bespake a sleepy hand of negligence; *

The floor was neither dry nor neat, the hearth
Was comfortless, and her small lot of books,
Which, in the cottage-window, heretofore

No tidings which might lead her anxious mind
To a source of quiet, if her husband lived,

* Mr H. H. Turner suggests that this line would be more naturally written,

Bespake a hand of sleepy negligence."

The alteration would be an improvement.-ED.