And disappeared. 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, 710 The honeysuckle, crowding round the porch, 715 Hung down in heavier tufts; and that bright weed, The yellow stone-crop, suffered to take root. 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 725 For the peculiar pains they had required, Declined their languid heads, wanting support. The cumbrous bind-weed, with its wreaths and bells, Had twined about her two small rows of peas, And dragged them to the earth. 730 Ere this an hour 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.- 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 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 770 Have flowed as if my body were not such Your very soul to see her. soul to see her. It would have grieved 780 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, 795 800 But yet no motion of the breast was seen, 805 "Ere my departure, to her care I gave, I returned, She knew not that he lived; if he were dead, same 820 825 In person and appearance; but her house 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; She had no wish to live, that she must die 850 Still in its place; his Sunday garments hung And when, 855 In bleak December, I retraced this way, By spinning hemp, a pittance for herself; 860 |