That, wheresoe'er I went, I still would ask
For him whom she had lost. We parted then-
Our final parting; for from that time forth
Did many seasons pass ere I returned
Into this tract again.

Nine tedious years;

870

From their first separation, nine long years,
She lingered in unquiet widowhood;
A Wife and Widow. Needs must it have been
A sore heart-wasting! I have heard, my Friend,
That in yon arbour oftentimes she sate 876
Alone, through half the vacant sabbath day;
And, if a dog passed by, she still would quit
The shade, and look abroad. On this old bench
For hours she sate; and evermore her eye 880
Was busy in the distance, shaping things
That made her heart beat quick. You see that
path,

Now faint, the grass has crept o'er its grey line;

There, to and fro, she paced through many a day Of the warm summer, from a belt of hemp 885 That girt her waist, spinning the long-drawn thread

With backward steps. Yet ever as there passed A man whose garments showed the soldier's red, Or crippled mendicant in sailor's garb,

The little child who sate to turn the wheel 890 Ceased from his task; and she with faltering

voice

Made many a fond enquiry; and when they, Whose presence gave no comfort, were gone by, Her heart was still more sad. And by yon gate, That bars the traveller's road, she often stood, And when a stranger horseman came, the latch Would lift, and in his face look wistfully: 897 Most happy, if, from aught discovered there

Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat
The same sad question.

Hut

Meanwhile her poor

900

Sank to decay; for he was gone, whose hand, At the first nipping of October frost,

Closed up each chink, and with fresh bands of

straw

Chequered the green-grown thatch. And so she lived

Through the long winter, reckless and alone; 905
Until her house by frost, and thaw, and rain,
Was sapped; and while she slept, the nightly
damps

Did chill her breast; and in the stormy day
Her tattered clothes were ruffled by the wind,
Even at the side of her own fire. Yet still
She loved this wretched spot, nor would for
worlds

910

Have parted hence; and still that length of road,

And this rude bench, one torturing hope endeared,

Fast rooted at her heart: and here, my Friend,

In sickness she remained; and here she died; Last human tenant of these ruined walls!" 916

The old Man ceased: he saw that I was moved;

From that low bench, rising instinctively
I turned aside in weakness, nor had power
To thank him for the tale which he had told. 920
I stood, and leaning o'er the garden wall
Reviewed that Woman's sufferings; and it
seemed

To comfort me while with a brother's love
I blessed her in the impotence of grief.

Then towards the cottage I returned; and

traced

Fondly, though with an interest more mild,
That secret spirit of humanity

925

Which, 'mid the calm oblivious tendencies Of nature, 'mid her plants, and weeds, and flowers,

930

And silent overgrowings, still survived.
The old Man, noting this, resumed, and said,
My Friend! enough to sorrow you have given,
The purposes of wisdom ask no more:

Nor more would she have craved as due to One
Who, in her worst distress, had ofttimes felt 935
The unbounded might of prayer; and learned,
with soul

Fixed on the Cross, that consolation springs, From sources deeper far than deepest pain, For the meek Sufferer. Why then should we read

The forms of things with an unworthy eye? 940 She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is here. I well remember that those very plumes,

Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on that wall.

By mist and silent rain-drops silvered o'er,
As once I passed, into my heart conveyed 945
So still an image of tranquillity,

So calm and still, and looked so beautiful Amid the uneasy thoughts which filled my mind,

That what we feel of sorrow and despair
From ruin and from change, and all the grief
That passing shows of Being leave behind, 951
Appeared an idle dream, that could maintain,
Nowhere, dominion o'er the enlightened spirit
Whose meditative sympathies repose

Upon the breast of Faith. I turned away, 955

And walked along my road in happiness.'

He ceased. Ere long the sun declining shot
A slant, and mellow radiance, which began
To fall upon us, while, beneath the trees,
We sate on that low bench: and now we felt, 960
Admonished thus, the sweet hour coming on.
A linnet warbled from those lofty elms,
A thrush sang loud, and other melodies,
At distance heard, peopled the milder air.
The old Man rose, and, with a sprightly mien
Of hopeful preparation, grasped his staff; 966
Together casting then a farewell look

Upon those silent walls, we left the shade;
And, ere the stars were visible, had reached
A village-inn, our evening resting-place. 970