At houses, men, and common light amazed.
The lanes I sought, and, as the sun retired,
Came where beneath the trees a fagot blazed;
The travellers saw me weep, my fate inquired,
And gave me food- -and rest, more welcome, more

desired.

XLVI.

Rough potters seemed they, trading soberly
With panniered asses driven from door to door;
But life of happier sort set forth to me,
And other joys my fancy to allure,

The bagpipe dinning on the midnight moor
In barn uplighted; and companions boon,
Well met from far with revelry secure
Among the forest glades, while jocund June
Rolled fast along the sky his warm and genial moon.

XLVII.

But ill they suited me,—those journeys dark
O'er moor and mountain, midnight theft to hatch!
To charm the surly house-dog's faithful bark,
Or hang on tiptoe at the lifted latch.

The gloomy lantern, and the dim blue match,
The black disguise, the warning whistle shrill,
And ear still busy on its nightly watch,
Were not for me, brought up in nothing ill:
Besides, on griefs so fresh my thoughts were brood-

ing still.

XLVIII.

What could I do, unaided and unblest?

My father! gone was every friend of thine :

And kindred of dead husband are at best

Small help; and, after marriage such as mine,
With little kindness would to me incline.

Nor was I then for toil or service fit;

My deep-drawn sighs no effort could confine; air forgetful would I sit

In

open

Whole hours, with idle arms in moping sorrow

knit.

XLIX.

The roads I paced, I loitered through the fields;
Contentedly, yet sometimes self-accused,
Trusted my life to what chance bounty yields,
Now coldly given, now utterly refused.
The ground I for my bed have often used:
But what afflicts my peace with keenest ruth
Is that I have my inner self abused,

Foregone the home delight of constant truth,
And clear and open soul, so prized in fearless

Through tears the rising sun I oft have viewed, Through tears have seen him towards that world descend

Where my poor heart lost all its fortitude:

Three years a wanderer, now my course I bend--
Oh! tell me whither.
for no earthly friend
Have I." She ceased, and weeping turned away
As if because her tale was at an end,

She wept; because she had no more to say

Of that perpetual weight which on her spirit lay.

LI.

True sympathy the Sailor's looks expressed,
His looks, for pondering he was mute the while.
Of social Order's care for wretchedness,

Of Time's sure help to calm and reconcile,

Joy's second spring and Hope's long-treasured

Yet, to relieve her heart, in friendly style

Proverbial words of comfort he applied,

And not in vain, while they went pacing side by side.

LII.

Erelong, from heaps of turf, before their sight,
Together smoking in the sun's slant beam,
Rise various wreaths, that into one unite,

Which high and higher mounts with silver gleam;
Fair spectacle! but instantly a scream

Thence bursting shrill did all remark prevent; They paused, and heard a hoarser voice blaspheme, And female cries. Their course they thither bent, Ånd met a man who foamed with anger vehement.

LIII.

A woman stood with quivering lips and pale,
And, pointing to a little child that lay
Stretched on the ground, began a piteous tale;
How in a simple freak of thoughtless play
He had provoked his father, who straightway,
As if each blow were deadlier than the last,
Struck the poor innocent. Pallid with dismay

The Soldier's Widow heard and stood aghast;

And stern looks on the man her gray-hairea Comrade cast.

LIV.

His voice with indignation rising high

Such further deed in manhood's name forbade ;
'The peasant, wild in passion, made reply
With bitter insult and revilings sad;

Asked him in scorn what business there he had;
What kind of plunder he was hunting now;
The gallows would one day of him be glad;
Though inward anguish damped the Sailor's brow,
Yet calm he seemed as thoughts so poignant would
allow.

LV.

Softly he stroked the child, who lay outstretched
With face to earth; and, as the boy turned round
His battered head, a groan the Sailor fetched,
As if he saw there and upon that ground
Strange repetition of the deadly wound

He had himself inflicted. Through his brain
At once the griding iron passage found;
Deluge of tender thoughts then rushed amain,
Nor could his sunken eyes the starting tear restrain.

LVI.

Within himself he said, What hearts have we!
The blessing this a father gives his child!
Yet happy thou, poor boy! compared with me,
Suffering, not doing, ill, fate far more mild.
The stranger's looks and tears of wrath beguiled.

The father, and relenting thoughts awoke;

He kissed his son:

so all was reconciled.

Then, with a voice which inward trouble broke Ere to his lips it came, the Sailor them bespoke.

LVII.

"Bad is the world, and hard is the world's law,
Even for the man who wears the warmest fleece
Much need have ye that time more closely draw
The bond of nature, all unkindness cease,
And that among so few there still be peace:
Else can ye hope but with such numerous foes
Your pains shall ever with your years increase?'
While from his heart the appropriate lesson flows,
A correspondent calm stole gently o'er his 'woes.

LVIII.

Forthwith the pair passed on; and down they look Into a narrow valley's pleasant scene

Where wreaths of vapor tracked a winding brook, That babbled on through groves and meadows green;

A low-roofed house peeped out the trees between ; The dripping groves resound with cheerful lays, And melancholy lowings intervene

Of scattered herds, that in the meadow graze, Some amid lingering shade, some touched by the sun's rays.

LIX.

They saw and heard, and, winding with the road Down a thick wood, they dropt into the vale; Comfort by prouder mansions unbestowed