To pass the remnant of his days, untasked His calling laid aside, he lived at ease: Invited, often would he leave his home By worldly-mindedness or anxious care; By knowledge gathered up from day to day; 395 Thus had he lived a long and innocent life. Such as might suit a rustic Sire, prepared Active and nervous was his gait; hr And his whole figure breathed intell gence. Time had compressed the freshness of his Into a narrower circle of deep red, Shaggy and grey, had meanings which it From years of youth; which, like a Being Of many Beings, he had wondrous skil come, 4 The Scottish Church, both on himself Human, or such as lie beyond the grave. Who now, with no appendage but a stat Screened from the sun. Supine the W His eyes as if in drowsiness half shut. Of my approaching steps, and in the sha By his habitual wanderings out of doors, space. hat Was moist with water-drops, as if t brim Had newly scooped a running stream. H rose, Pointing towards a sweet-briar, bade me More tranquil, yet perhaps of kindred climb birth, The fence where that aspiring shrub look- That steal upon the meditative mind, ed out Upon the public way. It was a plot of garden ground run wild, its matted weeds Marked with the steps of those, whom, as they passed, 455 he gooseberry trees that shot in long lank slips, Of brotherhood is broken: time has been When, every day, the touch of human hand r currants, hanging from their leafless Dislodged the natural sleep that binds stems, Ascanty strings, had tempted to o'erleap he broken wall. I looked around, and there, There two tall hedge-rows of thick alder boughs 460 ined in a cold damp nook, espied a well rouded with willow-flowers and plumy fern. y thirst I slaked, and, from the cheerless spot ithdrawing, straightway to the shade returned here sate the old Man on the cottagebench; them up Upon the slimy foot-stone I espied To the soft handling of the elements: 495 Forgive them ;-never-never did my steps Approach this door but she who dwelt within 465 A daughter's welcome gave me, and I loved her ad, while, beside him, with uncovered head, ret was standing, freely to respire, id cool my temples in the fanning air, us did he speak. "I see around me here ings which you cannot see: we die, my Friend, 470 r we alone, but that which each man loved id prized in his peculiar nook of earth es with him, or is changed; and very soon en of the good is no memorial left. 474 The Poets, in their elegies and songs menting the departed, call the groves, ey call upon the hills and streams to mourn, d senseless rocks; nor idly; for they speak, these their invocations, with a voice edient to the strong creative power 480 human passion. Sympathies there are She was a Woman of a steady mind, Tender and deep in her excess of love; Not speaking much, pleased rather with the joy 515 Of her own thoughts: by some especial care And their place knew them not. Mean while, abridged Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled Her temper had been framed, as if to With cheerful hope, until the second make A Being, who by adding love to peace Might live on earth a life of happiness. Her wedded Partner lacked not on his side 520 The humble worth that satisfied her heart: Frugal, affectionate, sober, and withal Keenly industrious. She with pride would tell That he was often seated at his loom, 524 In summer, ere the mower was abroad Among the dewy grass,-in early spring, Ere the last star had vanished.-They who passed At evening, from behind the garden fence Might hear his busy spade, which he would ply, After his daily work, until the light 530 Had failed, and every leaf and flower were lost In the dark hedges. So their days were autumn, When her life's Helpmate on a sick-bed lay, Smitten with perilous fever. In disease He lingered long; and, when his strength returned, He found the little he had stored, to met The hour of accident or crippling age. Was all consumed. A second infant now Was added to the troubles of a time Laden, for them and all of their degree, With care and sorrow: shoals of artisans From ill-requited labour turned adrift Sought daily bread from public charity. They, and their wives and childrenpier far Could they have lived as do the te birds That peck along the hedge-rows, or the kite That makes her dwelling on the mo tain rocks! "A sad reverse it was for him who ne Had filled with plenty, and possessed 2 peace, This lonely Cottage. At the door he stook And whistled many a snatch of me tunes That had no mirth in them; or with hi knife Carved uncouth figures on the heads sticks Then, not less idly, sought, through ent nook In house or garden, any casual work Of summer, autumn, winter, and spring. But this endured not; his good humor soon Became a weight in which no pleasure Passed from my mind like a forgotten was: And poverty brought on a petted mood And a sore temper: day by day he drooped, 581 And he would leave his work-and to the town Would turn without an errand his slack steps; sound. 610 A while on trivial things we held dis course, 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 614 Her homely tale with such familiar power, r wander here and there among the With such an active countenance, an eye fields. ne while he would speak lightly of his babes, 585 nd with a cruel tongue: at other times So busy, that the things of which he spake Seemed present; and, attention now relaxed, e tossed them with a false unnatural A heart-felt chilliness crept along my joy: nd 'twas a rueful thing to see the looks id Margaret to me, here beneath these Lade my heart bleed.'" veins. I rose; and, having left the breezy shade, sun, 621 That had not cheered me long-ere, looking round Upon that tranquil Ruin, I returned, And begged of the old Man that, for my sake, At this the Wanderer paused; id, looking up to those enormous elms, › said, “"Tis now the hour of deepest He would resume his story. noon. this still season of repose and peace, He replied, 625 is hour when all things which are not "It were a wantonness, and would de at rest 595 e cheerful; while this multitude of flies ith tuneful hum is filling all the air; hy should a tear be on an old Man's cheek? hy should we thus, with an untoward mind, 600 d in the weakness of humanity, away; mand Severe reproof, if we were men whose Could hold vain dalliance with the misery draw A momentary pleasure, never marked natural comfort shut our eyes and In mournful thoughts, and always might ears; d, feeding on disquiet, thus disturb e calm of nature with our restless thoughts?" be found, A power to virtue friendly; were 't not so, spake with somewhat of a solemn tone: 605 when he ended, there was in his face I will proceed. h easy cheerfulness, a look so mild, it for a little time it stole away recollection; and that simple tale Had been a blessed home, it was my That must have placed it there; and en chance To travel in a country far remote; appeared What pleasant expectations lured me on O'er the flat Common !-With quick step I reached 646 The threshold, lifted with light hand the latch; But, when I entered, Margaret looked at me that day Was ended, that long anxious day, I 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 A little while; then turned her head That I should follow with my babes, and blingly sink Beneath the misery of that wanderi life.' "This tale did Margaret tell with mat tears: And, when she ended, I had little pow To give her comfort, and was glad to take Such words of hope from her own m as served To cheer us both. But long we had talked Ere we built up a pile of better thoughts And with a brighter eye she looked ar As if she had been shedding tears of p We parted."Twas the time of ey spring; I left her busy with her garden tools; And well remember, o'er that fence looked, And, while I paced along the foota path, Called out, and sent a blessing after With tender cheerfulness, and with voice That seemed the very sound of happ thoughts. "I roved o'er many a hill and a dale, With my accustomed load; in heat a cold, She opened-found no writing, but be- Through many a wood and many an held Pieces of money carefully enclosed, 670 Silver and gold. 'I shuddered at the sight,' ground, In sunshine and in shade, in wet and th Drooping or blithe of heart, as i befall; Said Margaret, 'for I knew it was his My best companions now the dis |