That bars the Traveller's road, she often stood, Of tender feeling, she might dare repeat The same sad question. Meanwhile her poor Sank to decay: for he was gone-whose hand, Hut Closed up each chink, and with fresh bands of straw Was sapped; and while she slept the nightly damps She loved this wretched spot, nor would for worlds The Old Man ceased: he saw that I was moved; From that low Bench, rising instinctively I turn'd 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, To comfort me while with a Brother's love I bless'd her—in the impotence of grief. At length towards the Cottage I returned Fondly, and traced, with interest more mild, 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, 66 My Friend! enough to sorrow you have given, The purposes of wisdom ask no more; Be wise and chearful; and no longer read The forms of things with an unworthy eye. She sleeps in the calm earth, and peace is here. Those weeds, and the high spear-grass on that wall, By mist and silent rain-drops silver'd o'er, So calm and still, and looked so beautiful Amid the uneasy thoughts which filled my mind. And walked along my road in happiness." He ceased. Ere long the sun declining shot A linnet warbled from those lofty elms, At distance heard, peopled the milder air. Together casting then a farewell look END OF THE FIRST BOOK. H |