But often on this cottage do I museAs on a picture, till my wiser mindSinks, yielding to the foolishness of grief.She had a husband, an industrious man, 120Sober and steady. I have heard her sayThat he was up and busy at his loomIn summer ere the mower's scythe had sweptThe dewy grass, and in the early springEre the last star had vanished. They who passed 125At evening, from behind the garden-fenceMight hear his busy spade, which he would plyAfter his daily work till the daylightWas gone, and every leaf and flower were lostIn the dark hedges. So they passed their days 130In peace and comfort and two pretty babesWere their best hope next to the God in heaven.You may remember, now some ten years gone,Two blighting seasons when the fields were leftWith half a harvest. It pleased heaven to add 135A worse affliction in the plague of war;A happy land was stricken to the heart —'Twas a sad time of sorrow and distress.A wanderer among the cottagesI with my pack of winter raiment saw 140The hardships of that season. Many richSunk down us in a dream among the poor,And of the poor did many cease to be,And their place knew them not. Meanwhile, abridgedOf daily comforts, gladly reconciled 145To numerous self-denials, MargaretWent struggling on through those calamitous yearsWith cheerful hope. But ere the second autumn,A fever seized her husband. In diseaseHe lingered long, and when his strength returned 150He found the little he had stored to meetThe hour of accident, or crippling age,Was all consumed. As I have said, 'twas nowA time of trouble: shoals of artisansWere from their daily labour turned away 155Го hang for bread on parish chantyThey and their wives and children — happier farCould they have lived as do the little birdsThat peck along the hedges, or the kiteThat makes her dwelling in the mountain rocks. 160Ill fared it now with Robert, he who dweltIn this poor cottage. At his door he stoodAnd whistled many a snatch of merry tunesThat had no mirth in them, or with his knifeCarved uncouth figures on the heads of sticks; 165Then idly sought about through every nookOr house or garden any casual taskOf use or ornament and with a strange,Amusing but uneasy noveltyHe blended where he might the various tasks 170Of summer, autumn, winter, and of spring,But this endured not; his good humour soonBecame a weight in which no pleasure was,And poverty brought on a petted moodAnd a sore temper. Day by day he drooped, 175And he would leave his home, and to the townWithout an errand would he turn his steps,Or wander here and there among the fields.One while he would speak lightly of his babesAnd with a cruel tongue; at other times 180He played with them wild freaks of merriment,And 'twas a piteous thing to see the looksOf the poor innocent children. 'Every smile',Said Margaret to me here beneath these trees,'Made my heart bleed.” At this the old man paused, 185And looking up to those enormous elmsHe said, 'Tis now the hour of deepest noon.At this still season of repose and peace,This hour when all things which are not at restAre cheerful, while this multitude of flies 190Fills all the air with happy melody,Why should a tear be in an old man's eye?Why should we thus with an untoward mind,And in the weakness of humanityFrom natural wisdom turn our hearts away, 195To natural comfort shut our eyes and ears,And feeding on disquiet, thus disturbThe calm of Nature with our restless thoughts?'Second PartHe spake with somewhat of a solemn tone,But when he ended there was in his face 200Such easy cheerfulness, a look so mild,That for a little time it stole awayAll recollection, and that simple talePassed from my mind like a forgotten sound.A while on trivial things we held discourse, 205To me soon tasteless. In my own despiteI thought or that poor woman as or oneWhom I had known and loved. He had rehearsed
