Part 5

He spake with somewhat of a solemn tone: 605 But, when he ended, there was in his face Such easy cheerfulness, a look so mild,[BA] That for a little time it stole away All recollection; and that simple tale Passed from my mind like a forgotten sound. 610 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, 615 With such an active countenance, an eye So busy, that the things of which he spake Seemed present; and, attention now relaxed, A heart-felt chillness crept along my veins. I rose; and, having left the breezy shade, 620 Stood drinking comfort from the warmer sun, That had not cheered me long--ere, looking round[72] Upon that tranquil Ruin, I returned, And begged of the old Man that, for my sake, He would resume his story. He replied, 625 "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 630 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; wer't not so, I am a dreamer among men, indeed 635 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, 640 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[73] when these lofty elms once more appeared What pleasant expectations lured me on 645 O'er the flat Common!--With quick step I reached The threshold, lifted with light hand the latch; But, when I entered, Margaret looked at me[74] A little while; then turned her head away Speechless,--and, sitting down upon a chair, 650 Wept bitterly. I wist not what to do, Nor[75] 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 655 Unutterably helpless, and a look That seemed to cling upon me,[76] she enquired 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 660 That he had disappeared--not two months gone. He left his 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, 665 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 beheld[77] Pieces of money carefully enclosed, 670 Silver and gold. 'I shuddered at the sight,' Said Margaret, 'for I knew it was his hand That must have placed it there; and ere that day Was ended, that long anxious day, I learned, From one who by my husband had been sent 675 With the sad news, that he had joined a troop[78] 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 with my babes, and sink 680 Beneath the misery of that wandering life.'

"This tale did Margaret tell with many tears: And, when she ended, I had little power To give her comfort, and was glad to take 684 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; 690 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 695 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, 700 Drooping or blithe of heart, as might befal; My best companions now the driving winds, And now the 'trotting brooks'[BB] 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, 706 When, in the warmth of midsummer, the wheat[79] Was yellow; and the soft and bladed grass,[BC] Springing afresh, had o'er the hay-field spread Its tender verdure. At the door arrived, 710 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,[80] The honeysuckle, crowding round the porch, 715 Hung down in heavier tufts; and that bright weed, The yellow stone-crop,[BD] 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 720 To lag behind the season, and had lost Its pride of neatness. Daisy-flowers and thrift[BE] Had broken their trim border-lines, and straggled O'er paths they used to deck:[81] carnations, once Prized for surpassing beauty, and no less 725 For the peculiar pains they had required, Declined their languid heads, wanting support.[82] The cumbrous bind-weed,[BF] with its wreaths and bells, Had twined about her two small rows of peas, 729 And dragged them to the earth. "Ere this an hour Was wasted.--Back I turned my restless steps; [83]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 735 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-- 740 The longer I remained, more desolate: And, looking round me, now I first observed The corner stones, on either side the porch,[84] With dull red stains discoloured, and stuck o'er With tufts and hairs of wool, as if the sheep, 745 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. 750 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.' 756 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; 760 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 765 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;[85] my tears 770 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[86] Will give me patience to endure the things 775 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 780 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 785 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 790 Your very soul to see her: evermore Her eyelids drooped, her eyes downward were cast;[87] And, when she at her table gave me food, She did not look at me. Her voice was low, Her body was subdued. In every act 795 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, 800 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.

"Ere my departure, to her care I gave, For her son's use, some tokens of regard, 805 Which with a look of welcome she received; And I exhorted her to place her trust[88] 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 810 With the best hope and comfort I could give: She thanked me for my wish;--but for my hope It seemed[89] she did not thank me. "I returned, And took my rounds along this road again When[90] on its sunny bank the primrose flower 815 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,[91] She knew not that he lived; if he were dead, 819 She knew not he was dead. She seemed the same In person and appearance; but her house Bespake a sleepy hand of negligence;[BG] The floor was neither dry nor neat, the hearth Was comfortless, and her small lot of books, Which, in the cottage-window, heretofore 825 Had been piled up against the corner panes In seemly order, now, with straggling leaves Lay scattered here and there, open or shut, As they had chanced to fall. Her infant Babe Had from its Mother caught the trick of grief, 830 And sighed among its playthings. I withdrew, And once again entering the garden saw,[92] More plainly still, that poverty and grief Were now come nearer to her: weeds defaced The hardened soil, and knots of withered grass: 835 No ridges there appeared of clear black mould, No winter greenness; of her herbs and flowers, It seemed the better part were gnawed away Or trampled into earth; a chain of straw, Which had been twined about the slender stem 840 Of a young apple-tree, lay at its root; The bark was nibbled round by truant sheep. --Margaret stood near, her infant in her arms, And, noting that my eye was on the tree, She said, 'I fear it will be dead and gone 845 Ere Robert come again.' When to the House We had returned together, she enquired[93] If I had any hope:--but for her babe And for her little orphan boy, she said, She had no wish to live, that she must die 850 Of sorrow. Yet I saw the idle loom Still in its place; his sunday garments hung Upon the self-same nail; his very staff Stood undisturbed behind the door. "And when, In bleak December, I retraced this way, 855 She told me that her little babe was dead, And she was left alone. She now, released From her maternal cares, had taken up The employment common through these wilds, and gained, By spinning hemp, a pittance for herself; 860 And for this end had hired a neighbour's boy To give her needful help. That very time Most willingly she put her work aside, And walked with me along the miry road, Heedless how far; and, in such piteous sort 865 That any heart had ached to hear her, begged That, wheresoe'er I went, I still would ask For him whom she had lost. We parted then-- Our final parting; for from that time forth Did many seasons pass ere I returned 870 Into this tract again. "Nine tedious years; From their first separation, nine long years, She lingered in unquiet widowhood; A Wife and Widow. Needs must it have been A sore heart-wasting! I have heard, my Friend, 875 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 eye 880 Was busy in the distance, shaping things That made her heart beat quick. You see that path, 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 885 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, 895 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 Hut 900 Sank to decay; for he was gone, whose hand, At the first nipping of October frost, Closed up each chink, and with fresh bands of straw Chequered the green-grown thatch. And so she lived Through the long winter, reckless and alone; 905 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; 915 Last human tenant of these ruined walls!"[BH]

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. 920 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. Then towards the cottage I returned; and traced 925 Fondly, though with an interest more mild,[94] 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. 930 The old Man, noting this, resumed, and said, "My Friend! enough to sorrow you have given, The purposes of wisdom ask no more: Nor more would she have craved as due to One Who, in her worst distress, had oft-times felt 935 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.[95] Why then should we read The forms of things with an unworthy eye?[96] 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[97] 945 So still an image of tranquillity,[BI] 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 That passing shows[98] of Being leave behind, Appeared an idle dream, that could maintain, Nowhere, dominion o'er the enlightened spirit Whose meditative sympathies repose Upon the breast of Faith. I turned away,[99] 955 And walked along my road in happiness."

He ceased. Ere long the sun declining shot A slant and mellow radiance, which began To fall upon us, while, beneath the trees, We sate on that low bench: and now we felt, 960 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 965 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

VARIANTS:

[Footnote 3: 1836.

_the Wanderer, of whom he gives an account_-- 1814. ]

[Footnote 4: 1827.

From many a brooding cloud; far as the sight Could reach, those many shadows lay in spots 1814. ]

[Footnote 5: 1845.

Pleasant to him who on the soft cool moss 1814. ]

[Footnote 6: 1845.

By that impending covert made more soft, More low and distant! Other lot was mine; Yet with good hope that soon I should obtain As grateful resting-place, and livelier joy. 1814.

By power of that impending covert thrown To finer distance. Other lot was mine; 1827.

... Other lot was mine; Though with good hope to cheer the sultry hour That under shade as grateful I should soon Rest, and be welcomed there to livelier joy. C.

... Mine was at that hour A toilsome lot, yet with good hope that soon Under a shade as grateful I should find C. ]

[Footnote 7: 1845.

With languid feet, which by the slippery ground 1814.

With languid steps that ... 1827. ]

[Footnote 8:

Across a bare wide common I was toiling When oft each footstep by the slippery turf Was baffled: nor could my arm disperse The host of insects gathered round my face, And ever with me as I paced along. Now with eyes turned towards the far-distant hills, Now towards a grove that from the wide-spread moor Rose up! the port to which my course was bound. C. ]

[Footnote 9: 1845.

Upon that open level stood a Grove, The wished-for Port to which my steps were bound. 1814.

... my course was bound. 1827. ] [Footnote 10: 1845.

Him whom I sought; ... 1814. ]

[Footnote 11: 1827.

And in the middle of the public way Stationed, as if to rest himself, with face Turned tow'rds the sun then setting, while that staff Afforded to his Figure, as he stood,

1814.

Him had I chanced to mark the day before Alone, and stationed in the public way; Westward he looked as if his gaze were fixed Upon the sun then setting, ... C. ]

[Footnote 12: 1845.

... the countenance of the Man Was hidden from my view, and he himself 1814.

... his countenance meanwhile Was hidden from my view, and he remain'd 1827. ]

[Footnote 13: C. and 1845.

Beneath the shelter ... 1814. ]

[Footnote 14: 1845.

We were tried Friends: I from my Childhood up Had known him.--In a little Town obscure, A market-village, seated in a tract Of mountains, where my school-day time was pass'd, One room he owned, the fifth part of a house, A place to which he drew, from time to time, 1814.

We were tried Friends: amid a pleasant vale, In the antique market village where were pass'd My school-days, an apartment he had own'd, To which at intervals the Wanderer drew, 1827. ]

[Footnote 15: 1827.

On holidays, we wandered through the woods, A pair of random travellers; we sate-- We walked; he pleas'd me with his sweet discourse 1814. ]

[Footnote 16: 1827.

... he sang 1814. ]

[Footnote 17: 1814.

Old songs brought with him from his native hills; C. ]

[Footnote 18: 1827.

The doings, observations, which his mind 1814.

His habits, observations, and the thoughts He cherished-- ... MS. ]

[Footnote 19: 1827.

There, ... 1814. ]

[Footnote 20: 1827

His Father dwelt; and died in poverty; While He, whose lowly fortune I retrace, The youngest of three sons, was yet a babe, A little One--unconscious of their loss. But ere he had outgrown his infant days His widowed Mother, for a second Mate, Espoused the Teacher of the Village School; Who on her offspring zealously bestowed Needful instruction; not alone in arts Which to his humble duties appertained, But in the lore of right and wrong, the rule Of human kindness, in the peaceful ways Of honesty, and holiness severe. A virtuous Household ... 1814. ]

[Footnote 21: 1827.

To his Step-father's School, that stood alone, 1814. ]

[Footnote 22: 1827.

Far from the sight ... 1814. ]

[Footnote 23: 1836.