At the first nipping of October frost,
Closed up each chink, and with fresh bands of straw
Chequer'd the green-grown thatch. And so she lived
Through the long winter, reckless and alone;
Until her House by frost, and thaw, and rain,
Was sapp'd; and while she slept the nightly damps
Did chill her breast; and in the stormy day
Her tatter'd clothes were ruffled by the wind;
Even at the side of her own fire. Yet still
She loved this wretched spot, nor would for worlds
Have parted hence; and still that length of road,
And this rude bench, one torturing hope endear'd,
Fast rooted at her heart: and here, my Friend,
In sickness she remain'd; and here she died,
Last human Tenant of these ruined Walls."
The Old Man ceased: he saw that I was moved; From that low Bench, rising instinctively
I turned aside in weakness, nor had power
To thank him for the Tale which he had told.
I stood, and leaning o'er the Garden wall,
Review'd that Woman's sufferings; and it seem'd
To comfort me while with a Brother's love
I bless'd her — in the impotence of grief.
At length towards the Cottage I return'd
and traced, with interest more mild,
That secret spirit of humanity
Which, mid the calm oblivious tendencies
Of nature, mid her plants, and weeds, and flowers, And silent overgrowings, still survived.
The Old Man, noting this, resumed, and said,
My Friend! enough to sorrow you have given, The purposes of wisdom ask no more;
Be wise and cheerful; and no longer read
The forms of things with an unworthy eye.
She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is here.
I well remember that those very plumes,
Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on that wall,
By mist and silent rain-drops silver'd o'er,
As once I pass'd, did to my heart convey
So still an image of tranquillity,
So calm and still, and look'd so beautiful
Amid the uneasy thoughts which fill'd my mind,
That what we feel of sorrow and despair
From ruin and from change, and all the grief
The passing shows of Being leave behind,
Appear'd an idle dream, that could not live.
Where meditation was.
I turn'd away,
And walk'd along my road in happiness."
He ceased. Ere long the sun declining shot A slant and mellow radiance, which began
To fall upon us, while, beneath the trees,
We sate on that low Bench: and now we felt,
Admonish'd thus, the sweet hour coming on.
A linnet warbled from those lofty elms,
A thrush sang loud, and other melodies,
At distance heard, peopled the milder air.
The Old Man rose, and, with a sprightly mien
Of hopeful preparation, grasp'd his Staff:
Together casting then a farewell look
Upon those silent walls, we left the Shade;
And, ere the Stars were visible, had reach'd
A Village Inn, our Evening resting-place.
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