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 bloom'd 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.
A sad reverse to this happy picture follows; two
blighting seasons, when the fields were left without a
harvest. A time of universal distress and trouble en-
sued. The pedlar, returning from a country far
remote, again seeks this cottage.
'Having reach'd the door,
I knock'd; and when I enter'd with the hope
Of usual greeting, Margaret look'd at me
A little while; then turn'd her head away
Speechless; and, sitting down upon a chair,
Wept bitterly. I wist not what to do,
Or how to speak to her. Poor wretch! at last
She rose from off her seat, and then,— O, sir - -
I cannot tell how she pronounced my name.
With fervent love, and with a face of grief
Unutterably helpless, and a look
That seem'd to cling upon me, she inquired
If I had seen her husband. Ás 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 therein
Pieces of money carefully inclosed,
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 learn'd 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."
Comforting the forlorn woman with words of consolation and hope, the Pedlar departs to roam over hill and dale with his accustomed load, not returning till the wane of summer. Arriving at Margaret's door he
finds her absent. Whilst waiting long for her return, he notices the unclipt honeysuckle hanging in heavy tufts over the porch, and that the garden had lost its pride of neatness.
'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, I saw the corner stones
Till then unnoticed, on either side the door
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
To that poor woman: so familiarly
Do I perceive her manner, and her look,
And 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, or borne away;
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 voice was low,
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 breast was seen,
No heaving of the heart. 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 gave,
For her son's use, some tokens of regard,
Which with a look of welcome she received;
And I exhorted her to have 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
It seem'd she did not thank me.
'I returned,
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; if he were dead,
She knew not he was 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 scatter'd 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 sighed among its playthings. Once again
I turn'd 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 wither'd grass;
No ridges there appear'd of clear black mould,
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 tender 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
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