And Calidore for a fair shepherdess
Forsook his quest to learn the shepherd's lore,
My fancy drew from this the little hut
Where that poor princess wept her hopeless love,
Or where the gentle Calidore at eve
Led Pastorella home. There was not then
A weed where all these nettles overtop
The garden-wall; but sweet-brier, scenting sweet The morning air; rosemary and marjoram,
All wholesome herbs; and then, that woodbine wreathed
So lavishly around the pillared porch
Its fragrant flowers, that when I passed this way,
After a truant absence hastening home,
I could not choose but pass with slackened speed
By that delightful fragrance. Sadly changed
Is this poor cottage; and its dwellers, Charles!
Theirs is a simple, melancholy tale, -
There's scarce a village but can fellow it:
And yet, methinks, it will not weary thee,
And should not be untold.
Dwelt with an orphan grandchild: just removed
Above the reach of pinching poverty,
She lived on some small pittance, which sufficed,
'n better times, the needful calls of life,
Not without comfort. I remember her
Sitting at evening in that open doorway,
And spinning in the sun. Methinks I see her
Raising her eyes and dark-rimmed spectacles
To see the passer-by, yet ceasing not
To twirl her lengthening thread; or in the garden,
On some dry summer evening, walking round
To view her flowers, and pointing, as she leaned
Upon the ivory handle of her stick,
To some carnation whose o'erheavy head
Needed support; while with the watering-pot
Joanna followed, and refreshed and trimmed
The drooping plant, - Joanna, her dear child,
As lovely and as happy then as youth
And innocence could make her.
As though I were a boy again, and all
The mediate years, with their vicissitudes,
A half-forgotten dream. I see the maid
So comely in her Sunday dress! her hair,
Her bright, brown hair, wreathed in contracting
curls;
And then her cheek! it was a red and white
That made the delicate hues of art look loathsome.
The countrymen, who on their way to church
Were leaning o'er the bridge, loitering to hear
The bell's last summons, and in idleness
Watching the stream below, would all look up
When she passed by. And her old grandam,
Charles, -
When I have heard some erring infidel
Speak of our faith as of a gloomy creed,
Inspiring superstitious wretchedness,
Her figure has recurred; for she did love
The sabbath-day, and many a time hath crossed
These fields in rain and through the winter snows,
When I, a graceless boy, and cold of foot,
Wishing the weary service at its end,
Have wondered wherefore that good dame came there,
Who, if it pleased her, might have staid beside
A comfortable fire.
Her path was plain before her, and the close
Of her long journey near. But then her child
Soon to be left alone in this bad world, —
That was a thought which many a winter night
Had kept her sleepless; and, when prudent love
In something better than a servant's state
Had placed her well at last, it was a pang
Like parting life to part with her dear girl.
One summer, Charles, when, at the holidays
Returned from school, I visited again
My old, accustomed walks, and found in them
A joy almost like meeting an old friend,
I saw the cottage empty, and the weeds
Already crowding the neglected flowers.
Joanna, by a villain's wiles seduced,
Had played the wanton, and that blow had reached
Her grandam's heart. She did not suffer long:
Her age was feeble, and this mortal grief
Brought her gray hairs with sorrow to the grave.
I pass this ruined dwelling oftentimes,
And think of other days. It wakes in me
A transier.t sadness; but the feelings, Charles,
Which ever with these recollections rise,
I trust in God they will not pass away.
WHAT, Gregory, you are come, I see, to join us On this sad business.
Ay, James, I am come,
But with a heavy heart, God knows it, man!
Where shall we meet the corpse?
By noon, and near about the elms, I take it.
This is not as it should be, Gregory,
Old men to follow young ones to the grave!
This morning, when I heard the bell strike out,
I thought that I had never heard it toll
So dismally before.
"Tis what we all must come too, soon or late.
But when a young man dies in the prime of life,
One born so well, who might have blest us all
Many long years! -
Extinguished in him, and the good old name
Only to be remembered on a tombstone! —
A name that has gone down from sire to son
So many generations! Many a time,
Poor Master Edward, who is now a corpse,
When but a child, would come to me, and lead me
To the great family-tree, and beg of me
To tell him stories of his ancestors,
Of Eustace, he that went to the Holy Land
With Richard Lion-heart, and that Sir Henry
Who fought at Cressy in King Edward's wars;
And then his little eyes would kindle so
To hear of their brave deeds! I used to think The bravest of them all would not outdo
This comes of your great schools And college-breeding. Plague upon his guardians, That would have made him wiser than his fathers!
If his poor father, Gregory, had but lived,
Things would not have been so. He, poor good man,
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