Be broken down and old.
Sore aches she needs must have! but less
Of mind than body's wretchedness,
From damp, and rain, and cold.
If she is pressed by want of food,
She from her dwelling in the wood
Repairs to a road side;
And there she begs at one steep place,
Where up and down with easy pace
The horseman-travellers ride.
That oaten pipe of hers is mute,
Or thrown away; but with a flute
Her loneliness she cheers:
This flute, made of a hemlock stalk,
At evening in his homeward walk
The Quantock woodman hears.
I, too, have passed her on the hills
Setting her little water-mills
By spouts and fountains wild-
Such small machinery as she turned
Ere she had wept, ere she had mourned,
A young and happy child!
Farewell! and when thy days are told,
Ill-fated Ruth! in hallowed mould
Thy corpse shall buried be;
For thee a funeral bell shall ring,
And all the congregation sing
A Christian psalm for thee.
THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT.
BY A FEMALE FRIEND.
THE days are cold, the nights are long,
The north wind sings a doleful song;
Then hush again upon my breast;
All merry things are now at rest,
Save thee, my pretty love!
The kitten sleeps upon the hearth,
The crickets long have ceased their mirth;
There's nothing stirring in the house
Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse,
Then why so busy thou?
Nay! start not at that sparkling light;
'Tis but the moon that shines so bright
On the window-pane bedropped with rain:
Then, little darling! sleep again,
And wake when it is day.
ONE morning (raw it was and wet,
A foggy day in winter time)
A woman on the road I met,
Not old, though something past her prime :
Majestic in her person, tall and straight;
And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait.
The ancient spirit is not dead;
Old times, thought I, are breathing there;
Proud was I that my country bred
Such strength, a dignity so fair:
She begged an alms, like one in poor estate; I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate.
When from these lofty thoughts I woke,
With the first word I had to spare,
I said to her, "Beneath your cloak,
What's that which on your arm you bear?'
She answered, soon as she the question heard,
"A simple burden, sir,—a little singing-bird.'
And thus continuing, she said,
"I had a son, who many a day
Sailed on the seas; but he is dead:
In Denmark he was cast away;
And I have travelled far as Hull, to see
What clothes he might have left, or other property.
"The bird and cage they both were his; 'Twas my son's bird; and neat and trim He kept it: many voyages
This singing-bird hath gone with him;
When last he sailed he left the bird behind,
As it might be, perhaps, from bodings of his mind.
"He to a fellow-lodger's care
Had left it, to be watched and fed,
Till he came back again; and there
I found it when my son was dead;
And now-God help me for my little wit-
I trail it with me, sir! he took so much delight in it."
"UP, Timothy, up, with your staff, and away!
Not a soul in the village this morning will stay;
The hare has just started from Hamilton's grounds,
And Skiddaw is glad with the cry of the hounds."
-Of coats and of jackets grey, scarlet, and green,
On the slopes of the pastures all colours were seen;
With their comely blue aprons, and caps white as snow,
The girls on the hills made a holiday show.
The basin of boxwood,* just six months before,
Had stood on the table at Timothy's door;
A coffin through Timothy's threshold had passed;
One child did it bear, and that child was his last.
Now fast up the dell came the noise and the fray,
The horse and the horn, and the "hark! hark away!"
Old Timothy took up his staff, and he shut,
With a leisurely motion, the door of his hut.
Perhaps to himself at that moment he said,
"The key I must take, for my Helen is dead."
But of this in my ears not a word did he speak,
And he went to the chase with a tear on his cheek.
THE AFFLICTION OF MARGARET
WHERE art thou, my beloved son,
Where art thou, worse to me than dead?
Oh, find me, prosperous or undone !
Or, if the grave be now thy bed,
Why am I ignorant of the same,
That I may rest; and neither blame
Nor sorrow may attend thy name?
Seven years, alas! to have received
No tidings of an only child;
To have despaired, and have believed,
And be for evermore beguiled;
* In several parts of the north of England, when a funeral takes place, a basin full of sprigs of boxwood is placed at the door of the house from which the coffin is taken up, and each person who attends the funeral ordinarily takes a sprig of this boxwood, and throws it into the grave of the deceased.
Sometimes with thoughts of very bliss,
I catch at them, and then I miss :
Was ever darkness like to this?
He was among the prime in worth,
An object beauteous to behold;
Well born, well bred; I sent him forth
Ingenuous, innocent, and bold:
If things ensued that wanted grace,
As hath been said they were not base;
And never blush was on my face.
Ah! little doth the young one dream,
When full of play and childish cares,
What power hath even his wildest scream,
Heard by his mother unawares !
He knows it not, he cannot guess:
Years to a mother bring distress,-
But do not make her love the less.
Neglect me! no, I suffered long
From that ill thought, and, being blind,
Said, "Pride shall help me in my wrong:
Kind mother have I been,-as kind
As ever breathed: " and that is true;
I've wet my path with tears like dew,
Weeping for him when no one knew.
My son, if thou be humbled, poor,
Hopeless of honour and of gain,
Oh! do not dread thy mother's door;
Think not of me with grief and pain:
I now can see with better eyes;
And worldly grandeur I despise,
And Fortune with her gifts and lies.
Alas! the fowls of heaven have wings,
And blasts of heaven will aid their flight;
They mount,-how short a voyage brings
The wanderers back to their delight!
Chains tie us down by land and sea;
And wishes, vain as mine, may be
All that is left to comfort thee.
Perhaps some dungeon hears thee groan,
Maimed, mangled by inhuman men;
Or thou upon a desert thrown
Inheritest the lion's den;
Or hast been summoned to the deep,
Thou, thou and all thy mates, to keep
An incommunicable sleep.
I look for ghosts, but none will force
Their way to me; 'tis falsely said
That there was ever intercourse
Betwixt the living and the dead;
For, surely, then I should have sight
Of him I wait for day and night,
With love and longings infinite.
My apprehensions come in crowds;
I dread the rustling of the grass;
The very shadows of the clouds
Have power to shake me as they pass:
I question things, and do not find
One that will answer to my mind;
And all the world appears unkind.
Beyond participation lie
My troubles, and beyond relief:
If any chance to heave a sigh,
They pity me, and not my grief.
Then come to me, my son, or send
Some tidings that my woes may end;
I have no other earthly friend.
ONCE in a lonely hamlet I sojourned,
In which a lady driven from France did dwell;
The big and lesser griefs, with which she mourned,
In friendship she to me would often tell.
This lady, dwelling upon English ground,
Where she was childless, daily did repair
To a poor neighbouring cottage; as I found,
For sake of a young child whose home was there.
Once did I see her clasp the child about,
And take it to herself; and I, next day,
Wished in my native tongue to fashion out
Such things as she unto this child might say:
And thus, from what I knew, had heard, and guessed
My song the workings of her heart expressed.
"Dear babe, though daughter of another,
One moment let me be thy mother!
"An infant's face and looks are thine;
And sure a mother's heart is mine:
Thy own dear mother's far away,
At labour in the harvest-field:
Thy little sister is at play ;
What warmth, what comfort would it yield
To my poor heart, if thou wouldst be
One little hour a child to me !
"Across the waters I am come,
And I have left a babe at home:
A long, long way of land and sea!
Come to me-I'm no enemy:
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