And disappeared.

710

I journeyed back this way,
When, in the warmth of midsummer, the wheat
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,

The honeysuckle, crowding round the porch, 715
Hung down in heavier tufts; and that bright
weed,

The yellow stone-crop, 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
Had broken their trim border-lines, and
straggled
O'er paths they used to deck: 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,

725

Had twined about her two small rows of peas,
And dragged them to the earth.

Ere this an hour

730

Was wasted.-Back I turned my restless steps;
A stranger passed; and, guessing whom I

sought,

He said that she was used to ramble far.sinking in the west; and now From within 735

The sun was

I sate with sad impatience.

Her solitary infant cried aloud;

VI.

D

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,
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

755

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; 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
Only, that what I seek I cannot find;
And so I waste my time: for I am changed;

765

And to myself,' said she, 'have done much

wrong

And to this helpless infant. I have slept
Weeping, and weeping have I waked; my

tears

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

More

770

easy; and I hope,' said she, 'that God
heart
my
Will give me patience to endure the things 775
Which I behold at home.'

It would have grieved

780

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 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

785

790

Her eyelids drooped, her eyes downward were

cast;

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
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,

795

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 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 she did not thank me.

I returned, And took my rounds along this road again When 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,

She knew not that he lived; if he were dead, She knew not he was dead. She seemed the

same

820

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 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,
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 mold,
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
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,
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

855

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. Most willingly she put her work aside, That very time 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