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.