ページの画像
PDF
ePub

VI.

THE RUINED COTTAGE.

Ay, Charles! I knew that this would fix thine eye ;..
This woodbine wreathing round the broken porch.
Its leaves just withering, yet one autumn flower
Still fresh and fragrant; and yon holly-hock
That through the creeping weeds and nettles tall
Peers taller, lifting, column-like, a stem
Bright with its roseate blossoms.

I have seen
Many an old convent reverend in decay,
And many a time have trod the castle courts
And grass-green halls, yet never did they strike
Home to the heart such melancholy thoughts
As this poor cottage. Look! its little hatch
Fleeced with that grey and wintry moss; the roof
Part moulder'd in, the rest o'ergrown with weeds,
House-leek, and long thin grass, and greener moss;
So Nature steals on all the works of man,
Sure conqueror she, reclaiming to herself
His perishable piles.

I led thee here,

Charles, not without design; for this hath been
My favourite walk even since I was a boy;
And I remember, Charles, this ruin here,
The neatest comfortable dwelling-place!

That when I read in those dear books which first

Woke in my heart the love of poesy,
How with the villagers Erminia dwelt,
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-briar, scenting sweet
The morning air; rosemary and marjoram,

All wholesome herbs; and then, that woodbine wreathed

So lavishly around the pillar'd porch

Its fragrant flowers, that when I past this way,
After a truant absence hastening home,

I could not chuse but pass with slacken'd 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.

A widow here

Dwelt with an orphan grandchild: just removed
Above the reach of pinching poverty,

She lived on some small pittance which sufficed,
In better times, the needful calls of life,
Not without comfort. I remember her
Sitting at evening in that open door-way,
And spinning in the sun. Methinks I see her
Raising her eyes and dark-rimm'd 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 lean'd
Upon the ivory handle of her stick,

To some carnation whose o'erheavy head
Needed support; while with the watering-pot
Joanna follow'd, and refresh'd and trimm'd
The drooping plant; Joanna, her dear child,
As lovely and as happy then as youth
And innocence could make her.

Charles, it seems

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 recurr'd; for she did love

The Sabbath-day; and many a time hath cross'd
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 wonder'd wherefore that good dame came there, Who, if it pleased her, might have staid beside

A comfortable fire.

One only care

Hung on her aged spirit.

Her path was plain before

For herself,
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
Return'd from school, I visited again
My old accustom'd 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 play'd the wanton, and that blow had reach'd
Her grandam's heart. She did not suffer long;
Her age was feeble, and this mortal grief
Brought her grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.

I pass this ruin'd dwelling oftentimes,
And think of other days. It wakes in me
A transient sadness; but the feelings, Charles,
Which ever with these recollections rise,

I trust in God they will not pass away.
Westbury, 1799.

[blocks in formation]

VII.

THE LAST OF THE FAMILY.

JAMES.

WHAT, Gregory, you are come, I see, to join us
On this sad business.

GREGORY.

Aye, James, I am come,

But with a heavy heart, God knows it, man!
Where shall we meet the corpse?

JAMES.

Some hour from hence;

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.

GREGORY.

Well, well! my friend,

'Tis what we all must come to, 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!..

« 前へ次へ »