As she spake

A strange surprise and fear came to my heart,

Nor had I power to answer ere she told

That he had disappeared – not two months gone.

He left his house: two wretched days had past,

And on the third, as wistfully she raised

Her head from off her pillow, to look forth,

Like one in trouble, for returning light,

Within her chamber-casement she espied

A folded paper, lying as if placed

To meet her waking eyes. This tremblingly

She opened – found no writing, but beheld

Pieces of money carefully enclosed,

Silver and gold. ›I shuddered at the sight,‹

Said Margaret, ›for I knew it was his hand

That must have placed it there; and ere that day

Was ended, that long anxious day, I learned,

From one who by my husband had been sent

With the sad news, that he had joined a troop

Of soldiers, going to a distant land.

– He left me thus – he could not gather heart

To take a farewell of me; for he feared

That I should follow with my babes, and sink

Beneath the misery of that wandering life.‹

 

This tale did Margaret tell with many tears:

And, when she ended, I had little power

To give her comfort, and was glad to take

Such words of hope from her own mouth as served

To cheer us both. But long we had not talked

Ere we built up a pile of better thoughts,

And with a brighter eye she looked around

As if she had been shedding tears of joy.

We parted. – 'Twas the time of early spring;

I left her busy with her garden tools;

And well remember, o'er that fence she looked,

And, while I paced along the foot-way path,

Called out, and sent a blessing after me,

With tender cheerfulness, and with a voice

That seemed the very sound of happy thoughts.

 

I roved o'er many a hill and many a dale,

With my accustomed load; in heat and cold,

Through many a wood and many an open ground,

In sunshine and in shade, in wet and fair,

Drooping or blithe of heart, as might befal;

My best companions now the driving winds,

And now the ›trotting brooks‹ and whispering trees,

And now the music of my own sad steps,

With many a short-lived thought that passed between,

And disappeared.

I journeyed back this way,

When, in the warmth of midsummer, the wheat

Was yellow; and the soft and bladed grass,

Springing afresh, had o'er the hay-field spread

Its tender verdure. At the door arrived,

I found that she was absent. In the shade,

Where now we sit, I waited her return.

Her cottage, then a cheerful object, wore

Its customary look, – only, it seemed,

The honeysuckle, crowding round the porch,

Hung down in heavier tufts; and that bright weed,

The yellow stone-crop, suffered to take root

Along the window's edge, profusely grew

Blinding the lower panes. I turned aside,

And strolled into her garden. It appeared

To lag behind the season, and had lost

Its pride of neatness. Daisy-flowers and thrift

Had broken their trim border-lines, and straggled

O'er paths they used to deck: carnations, once

Prized for surpassing beauty, and no less

For the peculiar pains they had required,

Declined their languid heads, wanting support.

The cumbrous bind-weed, with its wreaths and bells,

Had twined about her two small rows of peas,

And dragged them to the earth.

Ere this an hour

Was wasted. – Back I turned my restless steps;

A stranger passed; and, guessing whom I sought,

He said that she was used to ramble far. –

The sun was sinking in the west; and now

I sate with sad impatience. From within

Her solitary infant cried aloud;

Then, like a blast that dies away self-stilled,

The voice was silent. From the bench I rose;

But neither could divert nor soothe my thoughts.

The spot, though fair, was very desolate –

The longer I remained, more desolate:

And, looking round me, now I first observed

The corner stones, on either side the porch,

With dull red stains discoloured, and stuck o'er

With tufts and hairs of wool, as if the sheep,

That fed upon the Common, thither came

Familiarly, and found a couching-place

Even at her threshold. Deeper shadows fell

From these tall elms; the cottage-clock struck eight; –

I turned, and saw her distant a few steps.

Her face was pale and thin – her figure, too,

Was changed. As she unlocked the door, she said,

›It grieves me you have waited here so long,

But, in good truth, I've wandered much of late;

And, sometimes – to my shame I speak – have need

Of my best prayers to bring me back again.‹

While on the board she spread our evening meal,

She told me – interrupting not the work

Which gave employment to her listless hands –

That she had parted with her elder child;

To a kind master on a distant farm

Now happily apprenticed. – ›I perceive

You look at me, and you have cause; to-day

I have been travelling far; and many days

About the fields I wander, knowing this

Only, that what I seek I cannot find;

And so I waste my time; for I am changed;

And to myself,‹ said she, ›have done much wrong

And to this helpless infant. I have slept

Weeping, and weeping have I waked; my tears

Have flowed as if my body were not such

As others are; and I could never die.

But I am now in mind and in my heart

More easy; and I hope,‹ said she, ›that God

Will give me patience to endure the things

Which I behold at home.‹

It would have grieved

Your very soul to see her. Sir, I feel

The story linger in my heart; I fear

'Tis long and tedious; but my spirit clings

To that poor Woman: – so familiarly

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 suffered. Yes, it would have grieved

Your very soul to see her: evermore

Her eyelids drooped, her eyes downward were cast;

And, when she at her table gave me food,

She did not look at me. Her voice was low,

Her body was subdued. In every act

Pertaining to her house-affairs, appeared

The careless stillness of a thinking mind

Self-occupied; to which all outward things

Are like an idle matter. Still she sighed,

But yet no motion of the breast was seen,

No heaving of the heart. 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 kissed her babe,

The tears stood in her eyes. I left her then

With the best hope and comfort I could give:

She thanked me for my wish; – but for my hope

It seemed she did not thank me.

I returned,

And took my rounds along this road again

When on its sunny bank the primrose flower

Peeped forth, to give an earnest of the Spring.

I found her sad and drooping; she had learned

No tidings of her husband; if he lived,

She knew not that he lived; if he were dead,

She knew not he was dead. She seemed 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 sighed among its playthings.