That seem'd to cling upon me, she enquired
If I had seen her Husband. As she spake
A strange surprise and fear came to my heart,
Nor had I power to answer ere she told
That he had disappear'd not two months gone.
He left his House: two wretched days had pass'd,
And on the third, as wistfully she raised
Her head from off her pillow, to look forth,
Like one in trouble, for returning light,
Within her chamber-casement she espied
A folded paper, lying as if placed
To meet her waking eyes. This tremblingly
She open'd found no writing, but beheld
Pieces of money carefully enclosed,
Silver and gold." I shudder'd at the sight,"
Said Margaret, "for I knew it was his hand
Which placed it there: and ere that day was ended,
That long and anxious day! I learned from One
Sent hither by my Husband to impart
The heavy news, - that he had join'd a Troop
Of Soldiers, going to a distant Land.
he could not gather heart
To take a farewell of me; for he fear'd
That I should follow with my Babes, and sink
Beneath the misery of that wandering Life."
This Tale did Margaret tell with many tears: And, when she ended, I had little power
To give her comfort, and was glad to take
Such words of hope from her own mouth as served
To cheer us both: but long we had not talk'd
Ere we built up a pile of better thoughts,
And with a brighter eye she look'd around
As if she had been shedding tears of joy.
We parted.'Twas the time of early spring;
I left her busy with her garden tools;
And well remember, o'er that fence she look'd,
And, while I paced along the foot-way path,
Call'd out, and sent a blessing after me,
With tender cheerfulness; and with a voice
That seem'd the very sound of happy thoughts.
I roved o'er many a hill and many a dale, With my accustom'd load; in heat and cold, Through many a wood, and many an open ground, In sunshine and in shade, in wet and fair, Drooping or blithe of heart, as might befal; My best companions now the driving winds, And now the " trotting brooks" and whispering trees, And now the music of my own sad steps,
With many a short-lived thought that pass'd between,
I journey'd back this way,
When, in the warmth of Midsummer, the wheat
Was yellow; and the soft and bladed
grass
Springing afresh had o'er the hay-field spread
Its tender verdure. At the door arrived,
I found that she was absent. In the shade,
Where now we sit, I waited her return.
Her Cottage, then a cheerful Object, wore
Its customary look,— only, it seem'd,
The honeysuckle, crowding round the porch,
Hung down in heavier tufts: and that bright weed,
The yellow stone-crop, suffer'd to take root
Along the window's edge, profusely grew,
Blinding the lower panes. I turn'd aside,
And stroll'd into her garden. It appear'd
To lag behind the season, and had lost
Its pride of neatness. Daisy-flow'rs and thrift
Had broken their trim lines, and straggled o'er
The paths they used to deck:- Carnations, once
Prized for surpassing beauty, and no less
For the peculiar pains they had required,
Declined their languid heads, without support.
The cumbrous bind-weed, with its wreaths and bells,
Had twined about her two small rows of pease,
And dragg'd them to the earth. Ere this an hour
Was wasted. Back I turn'd my restless steps;
A Stranger pass'd; and, guessing whom I sought,
He said that she was used to ramble far.
The sun was sinking in the west; and now
I sate with sad impatience. From within
Her solitary Infant cried aloud;
Then, like a blast that dies away self-still'd,
The voice was silent. From the bench I rose;
But neither could divert nor soothe my thoughts.
The spot, though fair, was very desolate —
The longer I remain'd more desolate :
And, looking round me, now I first observed
The corner stones, on either side the porch,
With dull red stains discolour'd, and stuck o'er
With tufts and hairs of wool, as if the Sheep,
That fed upon the Common, thither came
Familiarly; and found a couching-place
Even at her threshold. Deeper shadows fell
From these tall elms;-the Cottage-clock struck eight;--
I turn'd, and saw her distant a few steps.
Her face was pale and thin, her figure too
Was changed. As she unlock'd the door, she said,
"It grieves me you have waited here so long,
But, in good truth, I've wander'd much of late,
And, sometimes—to my shame I speak - have need
Of my best prayers to bring me back again."
While on the board she spread our evening meal,
She told me—interrupting not the work
Which gave employment to her listless hands-
That she had parted with her elder Child;
To a kind master on a distant farm
Now happily apprenticed. — " I perceive
You look at me, and you have cause; to-day
I have been travelling far; and many days
About the fields I wander, knowing this
Only, that what I seek I cannot find;
And so I waste my time: for I am changed;
And to myself," said she, "have done much wrong
And to this helpless Infant. I have slept
Weeping, and weeping have I waked; my tears
Have flow'd as if my body were not such
As others are; and I could never die.
But I am now in mind and in my heart
More easy; and I hope," said she, " that Heaven
Will give me patience to endure the things
Which I behold at home." It would have grieved
Your very soul to see her; Sir, I feel
The story linger in my heart; I fear
"Tis long and tedious; but my spirit clings
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