ECLOGUE VI.

Aye Charles! I knew that this would fix thine eye,

This woodbine wreathing round the broken porch,

Its leaves just withering, yet one autumn flower

Still fresh and fragrant; and yon holly-hock

That thro’ the creeping weeds and nettles tall

Peers taller, and uplifts its column'd stem

Bright with the broad rose-blossoms. I have seen

Many a fallen convent reverend in decay,

And many a time have trod the castle courts

And grass-green halls, yet never did they strike

Home to the heart such melancholy thoughts

As this poor cottage. Look, its little hatch

Fleeced with that grey and wintry moss; the roof

Part mouldered in, the rest o'ergrown with weeds,

House-leek and long thin grass and greener moss;

So Nature wars with all the works of man.

And, like himself, reduces back to earth

His perishable piles.

I led thee here

Charles, not without design; for this hath been

My favourite walk even since I was a boy;

And I remember Charles, this ruin here,

The neatest comfortable dwelling place!

That when I read in those dear books that first

Woke in my heart the love of poesy,

How with the villagers Erminia dwelt,

And Calidore for a fair shepherdess

Forgot his quest to learn the shepherd's lore;

My fancy drew from, this the little hut

Where that poor princess wept her hopeless love,

Or where the gentle Calidore at eve

Led Pastorella home. There was not then

A weed where all these nettles overtop

The garden wall; but sweet-briar, scenting sweet

The morning air, rosemary and marjoram,

All wholesome herbs; and then, that woodbine wreath'd

So lavishly around the pillared porch

Its fragrant flowers, that when I past this way,

After a truant absence hastening home,

I could not chuse but pass with slacken'd speed

By that delightful fragrance. Sadly changed

Is this poor cottage! and its dwellers, Charles!—

Theirs is a simple melancholy tale,

There's scarce a village but can fellow it,

And yet methinks it will not weary thee,

And should not be untold.

A widow woman

Dwelt with her daughter here; just above want,

She lived on some small pittance that sufficed,

In better times, the needful calls of life,

Not without comfort. I remember her

Sitting at evening in that open door way

And spinning in the sun; methinks I see her

Raising her eyes and dark-rimm'd spectacles

To see the passer by, yet ceasing not

To twirl her lengthening thread. Or in the garden

On some dry summer evening, walking round

To view her flowers, and pointing, as she lean'd

Upon the ivory handle of her stick,

To some carnation whose o'erheavy head

Needed support, while with the watering-pot

Joanna followed, and refresh'd and trimm'd

The drooping plant; Joanna, her dear child,

As lovely and as happy then as youth

And innocence could make her.

Charles! it seems

As tho’ I were a boy again, and all

The mediate years with their vicissitudes

A half-forgotten dream. I see the Maid

So comely in her Sunday dress! her hair,

Her bright brown hair, wreath'd in contracting curls,

And then her cheek! it was a red and white

That made the delicate hues of art look loathsome,

The countrymen who on their way to church

Were leaning o'er the bridge, loitering to hear

The bell's last summons, and in idleness

Watching the stream below, would all look up

When she pass'd by. And her old Mother, Charles!

When I have beard some erring infidel

Speak of our faith as of a gloomy creed,

Inspiring fear and boding wretchedness.

Her figure has recurr'd; for she did love

The sabbath-day, and many a time has cross'd

These fields in rain and thro’ the winter snows.

When I, a graceless boy, wishing myself

By the fire-side, have wondered why‘ she’ came

Who might have sate at home.

One only care

Hung on her aged spirit. For herself,

Her path was plain before her, and the close

Of her long journey near. But then her child

Soon to be left alone in this bad world,—

That was a thought that many a winter night

Had kept her sleepless: and when prudent love

In something better than a servant's slate

Had placed her well at last, it was a pang

Like parting life to part with her dear girl.

One summer, Charles, when at the holydays

Return'd from school, I visited again

My old accustomed walks, and found in them.

A joy almost like meeting an old friend,

I saw the cottage empty, and the weeds

Already crowding the neglected flowers.

Joanna by a villain's wiles seduced

Had played the wanton, and that blow had reach'd

Her mother's heart. She did not suffer long,

Her age was feeble, and the heavy blow

Brought her grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.

I pass this ruin'd dwelling oftentimes

And think of other days. It wakes in me

A transient sadness, but the feelings Charles

That ever with these recollections rise,

I trust in God they will not pass away.