Marked 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 looked around, and there,
Where two tall hedge-rows of thick alder boughs
Joined in a cold damp nook, espied a Well
Shrouded with willow-flowers and plumy fern.
My thirst I slaked, and from the chearless spot
Withdrawing, straightway to the shade returned
Where sate the Old Man on the Cottage bench;
And, while, beside him, with uncovered 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
the hills and streams to mourn,

upon

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 seemed 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. As I stooped to drink,
Upon the slimy foot-stone I espied

The useless fragment of a wooden bowl,
Green with the moss of years; a pensive sight
That moved my heart!-recalling former days
When I could never pass that road but She
Who lived within these walls, at my approach,
A Daughter's welcome gave me ; and I loved her
As my own child. O Sir! the good die first,
And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust

Burn to the socket. Many a Passenger

Hath blessed 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 seemed she loved him. She is dead,
The light extinguished of her lonely Hut,

The Hut itself abandoned 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 lacked 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 vanished. They who passed
At evening, from behind the garden fence
Might hear his busy spade, which he would ply,
After his daily work, until the light

Had failed, 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!
A Wanderer then among the Cottages

I, with my freight of winter raiment, saw
The hardships of that season; many rich
Sank down, as in a dream, among the poor;
And of the poor did many cease to be

And their place knew them not. Meanwhile abridg'd

Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled

To numerous self-denials, Margaret

Went struggling on through those calamitous years
With chearful hope: but ere the second autumn

Her life's true Help-mate on a sick-bed lay,
Smitten with perilous fever. In disease

He lingered long; and when his strength return'd,
He found the little he had stored, to meet

The hour of accident or crippling age,

Was all consumed. Two children had they now,
One newly born. As I have said, it was

A time of trouble; shoals of Artisans
Were from their daily labour turn'd adrift

To seek their bread from public charity,
They, and their wives and children-happier far
Could they have lived as do the little birds
That peck along the hedges, or the Kite

That makes his dwelling on the mountain Rocks!

A sad reverse it was for Him who long Had filled with plenty, and possess'd in peace, This lonely Cottage. At his door he stood,