Who trod upon the senseless turf would think Of what a world of woes lay buried there! Burton, near Christ Church, 1797.
PASSING across a green and lonely lane A funeral met our view. It was not here A sight of every day, as in the streets Of some great city, and we stopt and ask'd Whom they were bearing to the grave. They answer'd, of the village, who had pined Through the long course of eighteen painful months With such slow wasting, that the hour of death Came welcome to her. We pursued our way
To the house of mirth, and with that idle talk Which passes o'er the mind and is forgot, We wore away the time. But it was eve When homewardly I went, and in the air Was that cool freshness, that discolouring shade Which makes the eye turn inward: hearing then Over the vale the heavy toll of death Sound slow, it made me think upon the dead; I question'd more, and learnt her mournful tale.
She bore unhusbanded a mother's pains, And he who should have cherish'd her, far off Sail'd on the seas. Left thus, a wretched one, Scorn made a mock of her, and evil tongues Were busy with her name. She had to bear The sharper sorrow of neglect from him Whom she had loved too dearly. Once he wrote But only once that drop of comfort came To mingle with her cup of wretchedness; And when his parents had some tidings from him, There was no mention of poor Hannah there, Or 'twas the cold inquiry, more unkind Than silence. So she pined and pined away, And for herself and baby toil'd and toil'd; Nor did she, even on her death-bed, rest From labour, knitting there with lifted arms,
Till she sunk with very weakness. Her old mother Omitted no kind office, working for her, Albeit her hardest labour barely earn'd Enough to keep life struggling, and prolong The pains of grief and sickness. Thus she lay On the sick bed of poverty, worn out With her long suffering and those painful thoughts Which at her heart were rankling, and so weak, That she could make no effort to express Affection for her infant; and the child, Whose lisping love perhaps had solaced her, Shunn'd her as one indifferent. But she too Had grown indifferent to all things of earth, Finding her only comfort in the thought Of that cold bed wherein the wretched rest. There had she now, in that last home, been laid, And all was over now,. sickness and grief, Her shame, her suffering, and her penitence,.. Their work was done. The school-boys as they sport In the churchyard, for awhile might turn away From the fresh grave till grass should cover it; Nature would do that office soon; and none
1 The stink-pots used on board the French ships. In the engagement between the Mars and L'Hercule, some of our sailors were shockingly mangled by them: one, in particular as described in the Eclogue, lost both his eyes. It would be
The stay and comfort of my widowhood,
A dear good boy!.. When first he went to sea I felt what it would come to, . . something told me I should be childless soon. But tell me, Sir,
If it be true that for a hurt like his There is no cure? Please God to spare his life Though he be blind, yet I should be so thankful ! I can remember there was a blind man Lived in our village, one from his youth up Quite dark, and yet he was a merry man, And he had none to tend on him so well As I would tend my boy!
Of this be sure, His hurts are look'd to well, and the best help The land affords, as rightly is his due, Ever at hand. How happen'd it he left you? Was a seafaring life his early choice?
No, Sir! poor fellow, . . he was wise enough To be content at home, and 'twas a home As comfortable, Sir! even though I say it,
As any in the country. He was left A little boy when his poor father died, Just old enough to totter by himself, And call his mother's name. We two were all, And as we were not left quite destitute,
We bore up well. In the summer time I work'd Sometimes a-field. Then I was famed for knitting, And in long winter nights my spinning wheel Seldom stood still. We had kind neighbours too, And never felt distress. So he grew up
A comely lad, and wondrous well disposed; I taught him well; there was not in the parish A child who said his prayers more regular, Or answered readier through his Catechism. If I had foreseen this! but 'tis a blessing We don't know what we're born to!
As he grew up he used to watch the birds In the corn, child's work you know, and easily done. 'Tis an idle sort of task; so he built up
A little hut of wicker-work and clay Under the hedge, to shelter him in rain: And then he took, for very idleness, To making traps to catch the plunderers ; All sorts of cunning traps that boys can make,.. Propping a stone to fall and shut them in, Or crush them with its weight, or else a springe Swung on a bough. He made them cleverly,.. And, I, poor foolish woman! I was pleased To see the boy so handy. You may guess What follow'd, Sir, from this unlucky skill. He did what he should not when he was older: I warn'd him oft enough; but he was caught In wiring hares at last, and had his choice, The prison or the ship.
The choice at least Was kindly left him; and for broken laws This was, methinks, no heavy punishment.
So I was told, Sir. And I tried to think so, But 'twas a sad blow to me! I was used To sleep at nights as sweetly as a child, .. Now if the wind blew rough, it made me start, And think of my poor boy tossing about Upon the roaring seas. And then I seem'd
To feel that it was hard to take him from me For such a little fault. But he was wrong, Oh very wrong, . . a murrain on his traps! See what they've brought him to!
Well! well! take comfort
He will be taken care of if he lives; And should you lose your child, this is a country Where the brave Sailor never leaves a parent To weep for him in want.
FATHER! here, father! I have found a horse-shoe! Faith it was just in time; for t'other night I laid two straws across at Margery's door, And ever since I fear'd that she might do me A mischief for't. There was the Miller's boy Who set his dog at that black cat of hers, I met him upon crutches, and he told me "Twas all her evil eye.
Over the sea, perhaps ! . . I have heard tell
'Tis many thousand miles off at the end Of the world, where witches go to meet the Devil. They used to ride on broomsticks, and to smear Some ointment over them, and then away
Out at the window! but 'tis worse than all To worry the poor beasts so. Shame upon it That in a Christian country they should let Such creatures live!
And when there's such plain proof!
I did but threaten her because she robb'd Our hedge, and the next night there came a wind That made me shake to hear it in my bed. How came it that that storm unroof'd my barn, And only mine in the parish?.. Look at her, And that's enough; she has it in her face!.. A pair of large dead eyes, sunk in her head, Just like a corpse, and pursed with wrinkles round; A nose and chin that scarce leave room between For her lean fingers to squeeze in the snuff; But where didst And when she speaks! I'd sooner hear a raven Croak at my door!.. She sits there, nose and knees, Smoke-dried and shrivell'd over a starved fire, With that black cat beside her, whose great eyes Shine like old Beelzebub's; and to be sure It must be one of his imps!.. Ay, nail it hard.
I would have gladly given a crown for one If 'twould have done as well.
Down on the common; I was going a-field, And neighbour Saunders pass'd me on his mare: He had hardly said "Good day," before I saw The shoe drop off. 'Twas just upon my tongue To call him back; . . it makes no difference does it, I wish old Margery heard the hammer go! Because I know whose 'twas?
What makes her sit there moping by herself. With no soul near her but that great black cat? And do but look at her!
Poor wretch; half blind And crooked with her years, without a child Or friend in her old age, 'tis hard indeed To have her very miseries made her crimes! I met her but last week in that hard frost Which made my young limbs ache, and when I ask'd What brought her out in the snow, the poor old woman Told me that she was forced to crawl abroad And pick the hedges, just to keep herself From perishing with cold,.. because no neighbour Had pity on her age: and then she cried, And said the children pelted her with snow-balls, And wish'd that she were dead.
Complain? why you are wealthy! All the parish Look up to you.
AY, Charles! I knew that this would fix thine eye;.. Why, thank God, Sir, This woodbine wreathing round the broken porch. I've had no reason to complain of fortune. 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.
Perhaps, Sir, I could tell
Guinea for guinea with the warmest of them.
You can afford a little to the poor;
And then, what's better still, you have the heart To give from your abundance.
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 pass'd 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 even in that open doorway,
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
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 pass'd 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.
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