Forsook 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 wreathed

So lavishly around the pillar'd porch

Its fragrant flowers, that when I pass'd 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 here

Dwelt with an orphan grandchild: just removed
Above the reach of pinching poverty,

She lived on some small pittance which sufficed,
In better times, the needful calls of life,
Not without comfort. I remember her
Sitting at even in that open doorway,

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 follow'd, 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 though 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, wreathed 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 Grandam, Charles,..
When I have heard some erring infidel
Speak of our faith as of a gloomy creed,
Inspiring superstitious wretchedness,
Her figure has recurr'd; for she did love

The Sabbath-day; and many a time hath cross'd
These fields in rain and through the winter snows,
When I, a graceless boy, and cold of foot,
Wishing the weary service at its end,

Have wonder'd wherefore that good dame came there,
Who, if it pleased her, might have staid beside
A comfortable fire.

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 which many a winter night
Had kept her sleepless: and when prudent love
In something better than a servant's state
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 holidays
Return'd from school, I visited again

My old accustom'd 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 play'd the wanton, and that blow had reach'd
Her grandam's heart. She did not suffer long;
Her age was feeble, and this mortal grief
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, Which ever with these recollections rise, I trust in God they will not pass away.

Westbury, 1799.

VII.

THE LAST OF THE FAMILY.

JAMES.

WHAT, Gregory, you are come, I see, to join us On this sad business.

GREGORY.

Ay, James, I am come, But with a heavy heart, God knows it, man! Where shall we meet the corpse?

JAMES.

Some hour from hence; By noon, and near about the elms, I take it. This is not as it should be, Gregory, Old men to follow young ones to the grave! This morning when I heard the bell strike out, I thought that I had never heard it toll So dismally before.

GREGORY.

Well, well! my friend, "Tis what we all must come to, soon or late. But when a young man dies, in the prime of life, One born so well, who might have blest us all Many long years!..

JAMES.

And then the family Extinguish'd in him, and the good old name Only to be remember'd on a tomb-stone ! A name that has gone down from sire to son

C

So many generations !... Many a time
Poor master Edward, who is now a corpse,

When but a child, would come to me and lead me
To the great family-tree, and beg of me
To tell him stories of his ancestors,

Of Eustace, he that went to the Holy Land
With Richard Lion-heart, and that Sir Henry
Who fought at Cressy in King Edward's wars;
And then his little eyes would kindle so

To hear of their brave deeds! I used to think
The bravest of them all would not out-do
My darling boy.

Such a fine, generous, open-hearted Youth!
When he came home from school at holidays,
How I rejoiced to see him! He was sure
To come and ask of me what birds there were
About my fields; and when I found a covey,
There's not a testy Squire preserves his game
More charily, than I have kept them safe
For Master Edward. And he look'd so well
Upon a fine sharp morning after them,

His brown hair frosted, and his cheek so flush'd
With such a wholesome ruddiness, . . ah, James,
But he was sadly changed when he came down
To keep his birth-day.

JAMES.

Changed! why, Gregory, 'Twas like a palsy to me, when he stepp'd

When the Doctor sent him Abroad to try the air, it made me certain That all was over. There's but little hope, Methinks, that foreign parts can help a man When his own mother-country will not do.

The last time he came down, these bells rung so

I thought they would have rock'd the old steeple down; And now that dismal toll! I would have staid Beyond its reach, but this was a last duty:

I am an old tenant of the family,

Born on the estate, and now that I've outlived it,
Why 'tis but right to see it to the grave.
Have you heard ought of the new Squire ?

Why for that

He always was a well-conditioned lad,
One who'd work hard and well; and as for drink,
Save now and then mayhap at Christmas time,
Sober as wife could wish.

TRAVELLER.

Then is the girl A shrew, or else untidy?.. one to welcome Her husband with a rude unruly tongue? Or drive him from a foul and wretched home To look elsewhere for comfort? Is it so?

WOMAN.

She's notable enough; and as for temper
The best good-humour'd girl! You see yon house,
There by the aspen tree, whose grey leaves shine
In the wind? she lived a servant at the farm.
And often, as I came to weeding here,
I've heard her singing as she milk'd her cows
So cheerfully,.. I did not like to hear her,
Because it made me think upon the days
When I had got as little on my mind,
And was as cheerful too. But she would marry,
And folks must reap as they have sown. God help her!

TRAVELLER.

Why Mistress, if they both are well inclined, Why should not both be happy?

WOMAN.

They've no money.

TRAVELLER.

But both can work; and sure as cheerfully She'd labour for herself as at the farm.

WOMAN.

In truth it is not, Sir!

For when the horse lies down at night, no cares
About to-morrow vex him in his dreams :
He knows no quarter-day, and when he gets

Some musty hay or patch of hedge-row grass,
He has no hungry children to claim part
Of his half meal!

TRAVELLER.

'Tis idleness makes want, And idle habits. If the man will go And spend his evenings by the alehouse fire, Whom can he blame if there be want at home?

WOMAN.

Ay! idleness! the rich folks never fail
To find some reason why the poor deserve
Their miseries! . . Is it idleness, I pray you,
That brings the fever or the ague fit?
That makes the sick one's sickly appetite
From dry bread and potatoes turn away?
Is it idleness that makes small wages fail

For growing wants?.. Six years agone, these bells
Rung on my wedding-day, and I was told
What I might look for,.. but I did not heed
Good counsel. I had lived in service, Sir;
Knew never what it was to want a meal;

Lay down without one thought to keep me sleepless
Or trouble me in sleep; had for a Sunday
My linen gown, and when the pedlar came
Could buy me a new ribbon... And my husband,..
A towardly young man and well to do,..
He had his silver buckles and his watch;
There was not in the village one who look'd
Sprucer on holidays. We married, Sir,
And we had children, but while wants increas'd
Wages stood still. The silver buckles went,

1

So went the watch; and when the holiday coat
Was worn to work, no new one in its place.
For me.. you see my rags! but I deserve them,
For wilfully, like this new-married pair,
I went to my undoing.

And,.. God forgive me! but I often wish
To see them in their coffins... God reward you!
God bless you for your charity!

TRAVELLER.

You have taught me To give sad meaning to the village bells! Bristol, 1800.

IX.

THE ALDERMAN'S FUNERAL.

STRANGER.

WHOм are they ushering from the world, with all This pageantry and long parade of death?

TOWNSMAN.

A long parade, indeed, Sir, and yet here
You see but half; round yonder bend it reaches
A furlong further, carriage behind carriage.

STRANGER.

"Tis but a mournful sight, and yet the pomp Tempts me to stand a gazer.

TOWNSMAN,

Yonder schoolboy Who plays the truant, says the proclamation Of peace was nothing to the show; and even The chairing of the members at election Would not have been a finer sight than this; Only that red and green are prettier colours Than all this mourning. There, Sir, you behold One of the red-gown'd worthies of the city, The envy and the boast of our exchange; . . . Ay, what was worth, last week, a good half-million, Screw'd down in yonder hearse!

STRANGER.

Then he was born

Under a lucky planet, who to-day Puts mourning on for his inheritance.

TOWNSMAN.

When first I heard his death, that very wish Leapt to my lips; but now the closing scene Of the comedy hath waken'd wiser thoughts; And I bless God, that, when I go to the grave, There will not be the weight of wealth like his To sink me down.

STRANGER.

The camel and the needle,...

Is that then in your mind?

watches gradually disappeared, and their Sunday's clothes became common without any other to supply their place,.. but," said he, "some good comes from this, for they will then work for whatever they can get."

Note to Cottle's Malvern Hills.