At this the Wanderer paused;
And, looking up to those enormous elms,
He said, "'Tis now the hour of deepest noon.
At this still season of repose and peace,
This hour when all things which are not at rest
Are cheerful; while this multitude of flies
With tuneful hum is filling all the air ;1
Why should a tear be on an old Man's cheek? 2
Why should we thus, with an untoward mind,
And in the weakness of humanity,
From natural wisdom turn our hearts away;
To natural comfort shut our eyes and ears;
And, feeding on disquiet, thus disturb
The calm of nature with our restless thoughts?"
HE spake with somewhat of a solemn tone:
But, when he ended, there was in his face
Such easy cheerfulness, a look so mild,†
That for a little time it stole away
All recollection; and that simple tale
Passed from my mind like a forgotten sound.
A while on trivial things we held discourse,
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
Her homely tale with such familiar power,
With such an active countenance, an eye
+ Compare Resolution and Independence, stanza xiii. (vol. ii. p. 319)—
Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise
Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes.
So busy, that the things of which he spake
Seemed present; and, attention now relaxed,
A heart-felt chillness crept along my veins.
I rose; and, having left the breezy shade,
Stood drinking comfort from the warmer sun,
That had not cheered me long-ere, looking round 1
Upon that tranquil Ruin, I returned,
And begged of the old Man that, for my sake,
He would resume his story.
He replied,
"It were a wantonness, and would demand
Severe reproof, if we were men whose hearts
Could hold vain dalliance with the misery
Even of the dead; contented thence to draw
A momentary pleasure, never marked
By reason, barren of all future good.
But we have known that there is often found
In mournful thoughts, and always might be found,
A power to virtue friendly; wer't not so,
I am a dreamer among men, indeed
An idle dreamer! 'Tis a common tale,
An ordinary sorrow of man's life,
A tale of silent suffering, hardly clothed
In bodily form.-But without further bidding
I will proceed.
"While thus it fared with them,
To whom this cottage, till those hapless years,
Had been a blessed home, it was my chance
To travel in a country far remote ;
And 2 when these lofty elms once more appeared
There was a heart-felt chillness in my veins.
I rose; and, turning from the breezy shade,
Went forth into the open air, and stood
To drink the comfort of the warmer sun.
Long time I had not staid, ere, looking round 2 1814.
What pleasant expectations lured me on
O'er the flat Common !—With quick step I reached
The threshold, lifted with light hand the latch;
But, when I entered, Margaret looked at me1
A little while; then turned her head away
Speechless, and, sitting down upon a chair,
Wept bitterly. I wist not what to do,
Nor 2 how to speak to her. Poor Wretch ! at last
She rose from off her seat, and then,-O Sir!
I cannot tell how she pronounced my name :-
With fervent love, and with a face of grief
Unutterably helpless, and a look
That seemed to cling upon me,3 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
And glad I was, when, halting by yon gate
That leads from the green lane, once more I saw
These lofty elm-trees. Long I did not rest :
With many pleasant thoughts I chear'd my way
O'er the flat Common.-Having reached the door
I knock'd,—and, when I entered with the hope
Of usual greeting, Margaret looked at me
With fervent love, and with a look of grief
Unutterable, and with a helpless look
That seemed to cling upon me,
She opened-found no writing, but beheld1
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
Was ended, that long anxious day, I learned,
From one who by my husband had been sent
With the sad news, that he had joined a troop 2
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
That I should follow with my babes, and sink
Beneath the misery of that wandering life.'
"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
To cheer us both. But long we had not talked
Ere we built up a pile of better thoughts,
And with a brighter eye she looked around
As if she had been shedding tears of joy.
We parted. 'Twas the time of early spring ;
I left her busy with her garden tools;
And well remember, o'er that fence she looked,
And, while I paced along the foot-way path,
Called out, and sent a blessing after me,
With tender cheerfulness, and with a voice
That seemed the very sound of happy thoughts.
Which placed it there: and ere that day was ended,
That long and anxious day! I learned from One
Sent hither by my Husband to impart
The heavy news,—that he had joined a Troop.
"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,
Drooping or blithe of heart, as might befal;
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, And disappeared.
"I journeyed back this way,
When, in the warmth of midsummer, the wheat 1
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,2
The honeysuckle, crowding round the porch,
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.
And strolled into her garden.
To lag behind the season, and had lost
Its pride of neatness. Daisy-flowers and thrift §
Had broken their trim border-lines, and straggled
* Compare Burns's Epistle to William Simpson, Ochiltree— Adoun some trotting burn's meander.
† Compare Midsummer Night's Dream, act 1. scene i. 1. 211Decking with liquid pearl the bladed grass.
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