The hardships of that season: many rich Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled 545 To numerous self-denials, Margaret years With cheerful hope, until the second autumn, 550 555 He found the little he had stored, to meet 560 "A sad reverse it was for him who long 566 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 57° Carved uncouth figures on the heads of sticksThen, not less idly, sought, through every nook In house or garden, any casual work Of use or ornament; and with a strange, 575 580 He mingled, where he might, the various tasks Of summer, autumn, winter, and of spring. But this endured not; his good humour soon Became a weight in 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 Would turn without an errand his slack steps; Or wander here and there among the fields. One while he would speak lightly of his babes, 585 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.' 592 At this the Wanderer paused; From natural wisdom turn our hearts away; 600 The calm of nature with our restless thoughts?" HE spake with somewhat of a solemn tone: 605 All recollection; and that simple tale Passed from my mind like a forgotten sound. 610 Her homely tale with such familiar power, 615 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 found, 630 635 A power to virtue friendly; wer't not so, While thus it fared with them, 640 To whom this cottage, till those hapless years, 645 And when these lofty elms once more appeared reached The threshold, lifted with light hand the latch; Nor how to speak to her. Poor Wretch! at last 660 665 That seemed to cling upon me, 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 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, 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 Pieces of money carefully enclosed, 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 670 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 -He left me thus-he could not gather heart "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 Such words of hope from her own mouth as served 685 To cheer us both. But long we had not talked With tender cheerfulness, and with a voice 695 "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 befall; 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, 705 |