Do I perceive her manner, and her look,
presence, and so deeply do I feel Her goodness, that, not seldom, in my walks
A momentary trance comes over me; And to myself I seem to muse on One By sorrow laid asleep ; —
A human being destined to awake
To human life, or something very near
To human life, when he shall come again
For whom she suffer'd. Yes, it would have grieved Your very soul to see her: evermore
Her eyelids droop'd, her eyes were downward cast; And, when she at her table gave me food,
She did not look at me. Her body was subdued. In every act Pertaining to her house affairs, appear'd The careless stillness of a thinking mind Self-occupied; to which all outward things Are like an idle matter. Still she sigh'd, But yet no motion of the
No heaving of the heart.
breast was seen,
While by the fire
We sate together, sighs came on my ear,
I knew not how, and hardly whence they came.
Ere my departure, to her care I
For her Son's use, some tokens of regard, Which with a look of welcome she received; And I exhorted her to place her trust
In God's good love, and seek his help by prayer. I took my staff, and when I kiss'd her babe The tears stood in her eyes. I left her then With the best hope and comfort I could give; She thank'd me for my wish; - but for my hope Methought she did not thank me.
I return'd, And took my rounds along this road again Ere on its sunny bank the primrose flower Peep'd forth, to give an earnest of the Spring. I found her sad and drooping; she had learn'd No tidings of her Husband; if he lived,
She knew not that he lived;
She knew not he was dead.
if he were dead,
She seem'd the same
In person and appearance; but her House Bespake a sleepy hand of negligence;
The floor was neither dry nor neat, the hearth Was comfortless, and her small lot of books, Which, in the Cottage window, heretofore Had been piled up against the corner panes In seemly order, now, with straggling leaves
Lay scattered here and there, open or shut,
As they had chanced to fall. Her infant Babe Had from its Mother caught the trick of grief, And sigh'd among its playthings. Once again I turned towards the garden gate, and saw, More plainly still, that poverty and grief Were now come nearer to her: weeds defaced The harden'd soil, and knots of withered grass: No ridges there appear'd of clear black mold, No winter greenness; of her herbs and flowers, It seem'd the better part were gnaw'd away Or trampled into earth; a chain of straw, Which had been twined about the slender stem Of a young apple-tree, lay at its root,
The bark was nibbled round by truant Sheep.
Margaret stood near, her Infant in her arms, And, noting that my eye was on the tree, She said, "I fear it will be dead and gone Ere Robert come again." Towards the House Together we return'd; and she enquired If I had any hope: but for her Babe
And for her little orphan Boy, she said, She had no wish to live, that she must die Of sorrow. Yet I saw the idle loom
Still in its place; his Sunday garments hung
Upon the self-same nail; his very staff Stood undisturb'd behind the door. And when, In bleak December, I retraced this way,
She told me that her little Babe was dead, And she was left alone. She now, released From her maternal cares, had taken up
The employment common through these Wilds, and gain'd By spinning hemp a pittance for herself;
And for this end had hired a neighbour's Boy To give her needful help. That very time Most willingly she put her work aside, And walk'd with me along the miry road, Heedless how far; and in such piteous sort That any heart had ached to hear her, begg'd That, wheresoe'er I went, I still would ask For him whom she had lost. We parted then Our final parting; for from that time forth Did many seasons pass ere I return'd
From their first separation, nine long years,
She linger'd in unquiet widowhood;
A Wife and Widow. Needs must it have been
A sore heart-wasting! I have heard, my Friend, That in yon arbour oftentimes she sate
Alone, through half the vacant Sabbath-day; And, if a dog pass'd by, she still would quit
The shade, and look abroad. On this old Bench For hours she sate; and evermore her eye
Was busy in the distance, shaping things
That made her heart beat quick. You see that path,
Now faint, the has grass There, to and fro, she paced through many a day Of the warm summer, from a belt of hemp
That girt her waist, spinning the long drawn thread With backward steps. Yet ever as there pass'd A man whose garments shew'd the Soldier's red, Or crippled Mendicant in Sailor's garb,
The little Child who sate to turn the wheel Ceased from his task; and she with faltering voice Made many a fond enquiry; and when they, Whose presence gave no comfort, were gone by, Her heart was still more sad. And by yon gate, That bars the Traveller's road, she often stood, And when a stranger Horseman came, the latch Would lift, and in his face look wistfully: Most happy, if, from aught discover'd there Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat The same sad question. Meanwhile her Sank to decay: for he was gone, whose hand,
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