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