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 flowed 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 God Will give me patience to endure the things Which I behold at home.'
Your very soul to see her.
It would have grieved 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 suffered. Yes, it would have grieved Your very soul to see her: evermore
Her eyelids drooped, her eyes downward were 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, appeared The careless stillness of a thinking mind Self-occupied; to which all outward things Are like an idle matter. Still she sighed,
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 gave, 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 kissed her babe, The tears stood in her eyes. I left her then With the best hope and comfort I could give: She thanked me for my wish ;-but for my hope It seemed she did not thank me.
And took my rounds along this road again When on its sunny bank the primrose flower Peeped forth, to give an earnest of the Spring. I found her sad and drooping: she had learned 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 seemed 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 sighed among its playthings. I withdrew And once again entering the garden saw, More plainly still, that poverty and grief Were now come nearer to her: weeds defaced The hardened soil, and knots of withered grass: No ridges there appeared of clear black mold, No winter greenness; of her herbs and flowers, It seemed the better part were gnawed 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.' When to the House We had returned together, 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
Yet I saw the idle loom
Still in its place; his sunday garments hung Upon the self-same nail; his very staff
Stood undisturbed behind the door.
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 gained, 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 walked with me along the miry road, Heedless how far; and, in such piteous sort That any heart had ached to hear her, begged 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 returned
From their first separation, nine long years,
She lingered 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 passed 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 grass has crept o'er its grey line; 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 passed A man whose garments showed 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 discovered there Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat The same sad question. Meanwhile her poor Hut Sank to decay; for he was gone, whose hand,
At the first nipping of October frost,
each chink, and with fresh bands of straw green-grown thatch. And so she lived
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