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
By sorrow laid asleep ; —

or borne away,

A human being destined to awake

To human life, or something very near

To human life, when he shall come again

For whom she suffer'd. Yes, it would have grieved Your very soul to see her: evermore

Her eyelids droop'd, her eyes were downward cast; And, when she at her table gave me food,

Her voice was low,

She did not look at me.
Her body was subdued. In every act
Pertaining to her house affairs, appear'd
The careless stillness of a thinking mind
Self-occupied; to which all outward things
Are like an idle matter. Still she sigh'd,
But yet no motion of the

No heaving of the heart.

breast was seen,

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 kiss'd her babe
The tears stood in her eyes. I left her then
With the best hope and comfort I could give;
She thank'd me for my wish; - but for my hope
Methought she did not thank me.

I return'd,
And took my rounds along this road again
Ere on its sunny bank the primrose flower
Peep'd forth, to give an earnest of the Spring.
I found her sad and drooping; she had learn'd
No tidings of her Husband; if he lived,

She knew not that he lived;

She knew not he was dead.

if he were dead,

She seem'd the same

In person and appearance; but her House
Bespake a sleepy hand of negligence;

The floor was neither dry nor neat, the hearth
Was comfortless, and her small lot of books,
Which, in the Cottage window, heretofore
Had been piled up against the corner panes
In seemly order, now, with straggling leaves

Lay scattered here and there, open or shut,

As they had chanced to fall. Her infant Babe
Had from its Mother caught the trick of grief,
And sigh'd among its playthings. Once again
I turned towards the garden gate, and saw,
More plainly still, that poverty and grief
Were now come nearer to her: weeds defaced
The harden'd soil, and knots of withered
grass:
No ridges there appear'd of clear black mold,
No winter greenness; of her herbs and flowers,
It seem'd the better part were gnaw'd away
Or trampled into earth; a chain of straw,
Which had been twined about the slender stem
Of a young apple-tree, lay at its root,

The bark was nibbled round by truant Sheep.

Margaret stood near, her Infant in her arms, And, noting that my eye was on the tree, She said, "I fear it will be dead and gone Ere Robert come again." Towards the House Together we return'd; and she enquired If I had any hope: but for her Babe

And for her little orphan Boy, she said,
She had no wish to live, that she must die
Of sorrow. Yet I saw the idle loom

Still in its place; his Sunday garments hung

Upon the self-same nail; his very staff
Stood undisturb'd behind the door. And when,
In bleak December, I retraced this way,

She told me that her little Babe was dead,
And she was left alone. She now, released
From her maternal cares, had taken up

The employment common through these Wilds, and gain'd
By spinning hemp a pittance for herself;

And for this end had hired a neighbour's Boy
To give her needful help. That very time
Most willingly she put her work aside,
And walk'd with me along the miry road,
Heedless how far; and in such piteous sort
That any heart had ached to hear her, begg'd
That, wheresoe'er I went, I still would ask
For him whom she had lost. We parted then
Our final parting; for from that time forth
Did many seasons pass ere I return'd

Into this tract again.

Nine tedious years;

From their first separation, nine long years,

She linger'd in unquiet widowhood;

A Wife and Widow. Needs must it have been

A sore heart-wasting! I have heard, my Friend,
That in yon arbour oftentimes she sate

Alone, through half the vacant Sabbath-day;
And, if a dog pass'd by, she still would quit

The shade, and look abroad. On this old Bench
For hours she sate; and evermore her eye

Was busy in the distance, shaping things

That made her heart beat quick. You see that path,

crept o'er its

grey

line;

Now faint, the has
grass
There, to and fro, she paced through many a day
Of the warm summer, from a belt of hemp

That girt her waist, spinning the long drawn thread
With backward steps. Yet ever as there pass'd
A man whose garments shew'd the Soldier's red,
Or crippled Mendicant in Sailor's garb,

The little Child who sate to turn the wheel
Ceased from his task; and she with faltering voice
Made many a fond enquiry; and when they,
Whose presence gave no comfort, were gone by,
Her heart was still more sad. And by yon gate,
That bars the Traveller's road, she often stood,
And when a stranger Horseman came, the latch
Would lift, and in his face look wistfully:
Most happy, if, from aught discover'd there
Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat
The same sad question. Meanwhile her
Sank to decay: for he was gone, whose hand,

poor

Hut