Whom no one could have pass'd without remark. Active and nervous was his gait; his limbs And his whole figure breathed intelligence. Time had compress'd the freshness of his cheek Into a narrower circle of deep red,
But had not tamed his eye; that, under brows Shaggy and grey, had meanings which it brought From years of youth; which, like a Being made Of many Beings, he had wond'rous skill To blend with knowledge of the years to come, Human, or such as lie beyond the grave.
So was He framed; and such his course of life Who now, with no Appendage but a Staff The prized memorial of relinquished toils,
Upon that Cottage bench reposed his limbs,
Screen'd from the sun. Supine the Wanderer lay, His
eyes as if in drowsiness half shut,
The shadows of the breezy elms above
Dappling his face. He had not heard the sound Of my approaching steps, and in the shade
Unnoticed did I stand, some minutes' space. At length I hail'd him, seeing that his hat Was moist with water-drops, as if the brim Had newly scoop'd a running stream. He rose, And ere our lively greeting into peace Had settled, ""Tis," said I, "a burning day; My lips are parch'd with thirst, but you, it seems, Have somewhere found relief." He, at the word, Pointing towards a sweet-briar, bade me climb The fence where that aspiring shrub look'd out Upon the public way. It was a plot
Of garden-ground run wild, its matted. weeds Mark'd with the steps of those, whom, as they pass'd, The gooseberry trees that shot in long lank slips, Or currants, hanging from their leafless stems In scanty strings, had tempted to o'erleap The broken wall. I look'd around, and there, Where two tall hedge-rows of thick alder boughs Join'd in a cold damp nook, espied a Well Shrouded with willow-flowers and plumy fern. My thirst I slaked, and from the cheerless spot Withdrawing, straightway to the shade return'd Where sate the Old Man on the Cottage bench; And, while, beside him, with uncover'd head, I yet was standing, freely to respire,
And cool my temples in the fanning air,
Thus did he speak. "I see around me here
Things which you cannot see : we die, my Friend, Nor we alone, but that which each man loved And prized in his peculiar nook of earth Dies with him, or is changed; and very soon Even of the good is no memorial left. -The Poets, in their elegies and songs Lamenting the departed, call the groves, They call
upon the hills and streams to mourn, And senseless rocks; nor idly; for they speak, In these their invocations, with a voice Obedient to the strong creative power
Of human passion. Sympathies there are More tranquil, yet perhaps of kindred birth, That steal upon the meditative mind,
And grow with thought. Beside yon Spring I stood, And eyed its waters till we seem'd to feel One sadness, they and I. For them a bond Of brotherhood is broken: time has been When, every day, the touch of human hand Dislodged the natural sleep that binds them up In mortal stillness; and they minister'd To human comfort. Stooping down to drink, Upon the slimy foot-stone I espied
The useless fragment of a wooden bowl,
Green with the moss of years, and subject only
To the soft handling of the Elements:
fond thought — vain words!
Forgive them never did my steps approach
This humble door but, she who dwelt within A daughter's welcome gave me, and I loved her As my own child. Oh, Sir! the good die first, And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust Burn to the socket. Many a Passenger Hath bless'd poor Margaret for her gentle looks, When she upheld the cool refreshment drawn From that forsaken Spring; and no one came But he was welcome; no one went away
But that it seem'd she loved him. She is dead, The light extinguish'd of her lonely Hut,. The Hut itself abandon'd to decay,
And She forgotten in the quiet grave!
"I speak," continued he, "of One whose stock Of virtues bloomed beneath this lowly roof. She was a Woman of a steady mind,
Tender and deep in her excess of love,
Not speaking much, pleased rather with the joy
Of her own thoughts: by some especial care
Her temper had been framed, as if to make A Being who by adding love to peace Might live on earth a life of happiness. Her wedded Partner lack'd not on his side The humble worth that satisfied her heart: Frugal, affectionate, sober, and withal
Keenly industrious. She with pride would tell That he was often seated at his loom, In summer, ere the Mower was abroad Among the dewy grass, in early spring, Ere the last Star had vanish'd.—They who pass'd At evening, from behind the garden fence Might hear his busy spade, which he would ply, After his daily work, until the light
Had fail'd, and every leaf and flower were lost In the dark hedges. So their days were spent In peace and comfort; and a pretty Boy
Was their best hope, - next to the God in Heaven.
Not twenty years ago, but you I think
Can scarcely bear it now in mind, there came Two blighting seasons, when the fields were left With half a harvest. It pleased Heaven to add A worse affliction in the plague of war; This happy Land was stricken to the heart!
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