Eclogue VI. The Ruined Cottage.

    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.