She reached the house, last of the funeral train; And some one, as she entered, having chanced To urge unthinkingly their prompt departure, 975 'Nay,' said she, with commanding look, a spirit Of anger never seen in her before,

'Nay, ye must wait my time!' and down she sate,

And by the unclosed coffin kept her seat Weeping and looking, looking on and weeping, Upon the last sweet slumber of her Child, 981 Until at length her soul was satisfied.

"You see the Infant's Grave; and to this spot, The Mother, oft as she was sent abroad, On whatsoever errand, urged her steps: Hither she came; here stood, and sometimes knelt

985

990

In the broad day, a rueful Magdalene!
So call her; for not only she bewailed
A mother's loss, but mourned in bitterness
Her own transgression; penitent sincere
As ever raised to heaven a streaming eye!
At length the parents of the foster-child,
Noting that in despite of their commands.
She still renewed and could not but renew
Those visitations, ceased to send her forth; 995
Or, to the garden's narrow bounds, confined.
I failed not to remind them that they erred;
For holy Nature might not thus be crossed,
Thus wronged in woman's breast: in vain I
pleaded-

999

But the green stalk of Ellen's life was snapped, And the flower drooped; as every eye could see, It hung its head in mortal languishment. -Aided by this appearance, I at length Prevailed; and, from those bonds released, she went

Home to her mother's house.

The Youth was fled; 1005

The rash betrayer could not face the shame
Or sorrow which his senseless guilt had caused;
And little would his presence, or proof given
Of a relenting soul, have now availed;
For, like a shadow, he was passed away
From Ellen's thoughts; had perished to her
mind

ΠΟΙΟ

For all concerns of fear, or hope, or love,
Save only those which to their common shame,
And to his moral being appertained:

Hope from that quarter would, I know, have

brought

A heavenly comfort; there she recognised.
An unrelaxing bond, a mutual need;
There, and, as seemed, there only.

1015

She had built,

Her fond maternal heart had built, a nest
In blindness all too near the river's edge; 1020
That work a summer flood with hasty swell
Had swept away; and now her Spirit longed
For its last flight to heaven's security.

1025

The bodily frame wasted from day to day; Meanwhile, relinquishing all other cares, Her mind she strictly tutored to find peace And pleasure in endurance. Much she thought, And much she read; and brooded feelingly Upon her own unworthiness. To me, As to a spiritual comforter and friend, Her heart she opened; and no pains were spared

To mitigate, as gently as I could,

1030

The sting of self-reproach, with healing words. Meek Saint! through patience glorified on earth!

In whom, as by her lonely hearth she sate, 1035

The ghastly face of cold decay put on
A sun-like beauty, and appeared divine!
May I not mention that, within those walls,
In due observance of her pious wish,

The congregation joined with me in prayer 1040
For her soul's good? Nor was that office vain.
-Much did she suffer: but, if any friend,
Beholding her condition, at the sight
Gave way to words of pity or complaint,
She stilled them with a prompt reproof, and
said,

1045 'He who afflicts me knows what I can bear; And, when I fail, and can endure no more, Will mercifully take me to himself.'

So, through the cloud of death, her Spirit passed

Into that pure and unknown world of love 1050 Where injury cannot come :-and here is laid The mortal Body by her Infant's side."

The Vicar ceased; and downcast looks made known

That each had listened with his inmost heart.
For me, the emotion scarcely was less strong
Or less benign than that which I had felt 1056
When seated near my venerable Friend,
Under those shady elms, from him I heard
The story that retraced the slow decline
Of Margaret, sinking on the lonely heath 1060
With the neglected house to which she clung.
-I noted that the Solitary's cheek

Confessed the power of nature.-Pleased though sad,

More pleased than sad, the grey-haired Wanderer sate;

Thanks to his pure imaginative soul

Capacious and serene; his blameless life,

1065

His knowledge, wisdom, love of truth, and love Of human kind! He was it who first broke

The pensive silence, saying:

"Blest are they Whose sorrow rather is to suffer wrong 1070 Than to do wrong, albeit themselves have erred.

This tale gives proof that Heaven most gently deals

With such, in their affliction.-Ellen's fate,
Her tender spirit, and her contrite heart,
Call to my mind dark hints which I have heard
Of one who died within this vale, by doom 1076
Heavier, as his offence was heavier far.
Where, Sir, I pray you, where are laid. the

bones

Of Wilfred Armathwaite ?”

The Vicar answered, "In that green nook, close by the Church-yard

wall,

1080

Beneath yon hawthorn, planted by myself
In memory and for warning, and in sign
Of sweetness where dire anguish had been
known,

Of reconcilement after deep offence-
There doth he rest. No theme his fate supplies
For the smooth glozings of the indulgent
world;

1086

Nor need the windings of his devious course
Be here retraced;-enough that, by mishap
And venial error, robbed of competence,
And her obsequious shadow, peace of mind,
He craved a substitute in troubled joy;
Against his conscience rose in arms, and,
braving

Divine displeasure, broke the marriage-vow.
That which he had been weak enough to do

1091

Was misery in remembrance; he was stung, Stung by his inward thoughts, and by the

smiles

1096

Of wife and children stung to agony.
Wretched at home, he gained no peace abroad;
Ranged through the mountains, slept upon the
earth,

Asked comfort of the open air, and found 1100
No quiet in the darkness of the night,
No pleasure in the beauty of the day.
His flock he slighted: his paternal fields
Became a clog to him, whose spirit wished
To fly but whither! And this gracious
Church,

1105

That wears a look so full of peace and hope
And love, benignant mother of the vale,
How fair amid her brood of cottages!
She was to him a sickness and reproach.
Much to the last remained unknown: but this
Is sure, that through remorse and grief he

IIII

died Though pitied among men, absolved by God, He could not find forgiveness in himself; Nor could endure the weight of his own shame.

'Here rests a Mother. But from her I turn And from her grave.-Behold-upon that

ridge,

1116

That, stretching boldly from the mountain

side,

Carries into the centre of the vale

Its rocks and woods-the Cottage where she

dwelt ;

1121

And where yet dwells her faithful Partner, left
(Full eight years past) the solitary prop
Of many helpless Children. I begin
With words that might be prelude to a tale