But, when I entered Margaret looked at me A little while; then turned her head away Speechless, and, sitting down upon a chair, Wept bitterly. I wist not what to do,
Nor 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 seemed to cling upon me, she inquired If I had seen her Husband. As she spake A strange surprise and fear came to my heart; Nor had I power to answer ere she told That he had disappeared — not two months gone. He left his House: two wretched days had past, 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 opened found no writing, but beheld Pieces of money carefully enclosed,
Silver and gold. 'I shuddered 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 learned from One Sent hither by my Husband to impart
The heavy news, that he had joined a Troop Öf Soldiers, going to a distant Land.
He left me thus he could not gather heart To take a farewell of me; for he feared That I should follow with my Babes, and sink Beneath the misery of that wandering Life.'
"This Tale did Margaret tell with many tears. And, when she ended, I had little power
To give her comfort, and was glad to take Such words of hope from her own mouth as served To cheer us both:- but long we had not talked Ere we built up a pile of better thoughts, And with a brighter eye she looked around, As if she had been shedding tears of joy. We parted. 'Twas the time of early spring; I left her busy with her garden tools;
And well remember, o'er that fence she looked, And, while I paced along the foot-way path, Called out, and sent a blessing after me; With tender cheerfulness; and with a voice That seemed the very sound of happy thoughts.
"I roved o'er many a hill and many a dale, With my accustomed load; in heat and cold, Through many a wood, and many an open ground, In sunshine and in shade, in wet and fair, Drooping or blithe of heart, as might befal; My best companions now the driving winds, And now the 'trotting brooks' and whispering trees, And now the music of my own sad steps, With many a short-lived thought that passed between, And disappeared. I journeyed back this way, When, in the warmth of Midsummer, the wheat Was yellow; and the soft and bladed grass, Springing afresh, had o'er the hay-field spread Its tender verdure. At the door arrived,
I found that she was absent. In the shade, Where now we sit, I waited her return. Her Cottage, then a cheerful Object, wore Its customary look, only, it seemed, The honeysuckle, crowding round the porch,
Hung down in heavier tufts; and that bright weed, The yellow stone-crop, suffered to take root Along the window's edge, profusely grew, Blinding the lower panes. I turned aside, And strolled into her garden. It appeared To lag behind the season, and had lost Its pride of neatness. Daisy-flowers and thrift Had broken their trim lines, and straggled o'er The paths they used to deck: carnations, once Prized for surpassing beauty, and no less For the peculiar pains they had required, Declined their languid heads, wanting support. The cumbrous bind-weed, with its wreaths and bells, Had twined about her two small rows of pease, And dragged them to the earth. Ere this an hour Was wasted. Back I turned my restless steps; A Stranger passed; and, guessing whom I sought, He said that she was used to ramble far. 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-stilled, 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 remained, more desolate;
And, looking round me, now I first observed The corner stones, on either side the porch, With dull red stains discolored, 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 turned, and saw her distant a few steps.
Her face was pale and thin; her figure, too, Was changed. As she unlocked the door, she said, It grieves me you have waited here so long; But, in good truth, I've wandered 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
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.' 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
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 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, 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. 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 Methought she did not thank me.
And took my rounds along this road again Ere 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
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