The Ruined Cottage

'TWAS summer, and the sun had mounted high: Southward the landscape indistinctly glared Through a pale steam; but all the northern downs, In clearest air ascending, showed far off Their surfaces with shadows dappled o'er 5 Of deep embattled clouds. Far as the sight Could reach those many shadows lay in spots Determined and unmoved, with steady beams Of clear and pleasant sunshine interposed; Pleasant to him who on the soft cool moss 10 Extends his careless limbs beside the root Of some huge oak whose aged branches make A twilight of their own, a dewy shade Where the wren warbles while the dreaming man, Half-conscious of that soothing melody, 15 With sidelong eye looks out upon the scene, By those impending branches made more soft, More soft and distant. Other lot was mine. Across a bare wide common I had roiled With languid feet which by the slippery groan 20 Were baffled still; and when I stretched myself On the brown earth my limbs from very heat Could find no rest, nor my weak arm disperse The insect host which gathered round my face And joined their murmurs to the tedious noise 25 Of seeds of bursting gorse that crackled round. I rose and turned towards a group of trees Which midway in that level stood alone; And thither come at length, beneath a shade Of clustering elms4 that sprang from the same root 30 I found a ruined house, four naked walls That stared upon each other. I looked round And near the door I saw an aged man Alone and stretched upon the cottage bench, An iron-pointed staff lay at his side. 35 With instantaneous joy I recognized That pride of nature and of lowly life, The venerable Armytage, a friend As dear to me as is the setting sun.. Two days before 40 We had been fellow-travellers, I knew That he was in this neighbourhood, and now Delighted found him here in the cool shade. He lay, his pack of rustic merchandise Pillowing his head. I guess he had no thought 45 Of his way-wandering life. His eyes were shut, The shadows of the breezy elms above Dappled his face. With thirsty heat oppressed At length I hailed him, glad to see his hat Bedewed with water-drops, as if the brim 50 Had newly scooped a running scream. He rose And pointing to a sunflower, bade me climb The [] wall where that same gaudy flower Looked out upon the road. It was a plot Of garden-ground now wild, its matted weeds 55 Marked with the steps of those whom its they passed, The gooseberry-trees that shot in long lank slips. Or currants hanging from their leafless stems In scanty strings, had tempted to o'erleap The broken wall. Within that cheerless spot, 60 Where two tall hedgerows of thick willow boughs Joined in a damp cold nook, I found a well. Half covered up with willow-flowers and weeds, I slaked my thirst and to the shady bench Returned, and while I stood unbonneted 65 To catch the motion of the cooler air The old man said, 'I see around me here Things which you cannot see. We die, my friend, Nor we alone, but that which each man loved And prized in his peculiar nook of earth 70 Dies with him, or is changed, and very soon Even of the good is no memorial left. The poets, in their elegies and songs Lamenting the departed, call the groves, They call upon the hills and streams to mourn, 75 And senseless rocks — nor idly, for they speak In these their invocations with a voice Obedient to the strong creative power Of human passion. Sympathies there are More tranquil, yet perhaps of kindred birth, 80 That steal upon the meditative mind And grow with thought. Beside yon spring I stood, And eyed its waters till we seemed to feel One sadness, they and L For them a bond Of brotherhood is broken: time has been 85 When every day the touch of human hand Disturbed their stillness, and they ministered To human comfort. When I stooped to drink A spider's web hung to the water's edge, And on the wet and slimy footstone lay 90 The useless fragment of a wooden bowl; It moved my very heart. The day has been When I could never pass this road but she Who lived within these walls, when I appeared, A daughter's welcome gave me, and I loved her 95 As my own child. Oh sir! The good die first, And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust Burn to the socket, Many a passenger Has blessed poor Margaret for her gentle looks When she upheld the cool refreshment drawn 100 From that forsaken spring, and no one came But he was welcome, no one went away But that it seemed she loved him. She is dead, The worm is on her cheek, and this poor hut, Stripped of its outward garb of household flowers, 105 Of rose and sweetbriar, offers to the wind A cold bare wall whose earthy top is tricked With weeds and the rank speargrass. She is dead, And nettles rot and adders sun themselves Where we have sat together while she nursed 110 Her infant at her breast. The unshod colt, The wandering heifer and the potter's ass, Find shelter now within the chimney-wall Where I have seen her evening hearthstone blaze And through the window spread upon the road 115 Its cheerful light. You will forgive me, sir, But often on this cottage do I muse As on a picture, till my wiser mind Sinks, yielding to the foolishness of grief. She had a husband, an industrious man, 120 Sober and steady. I have heard her say That he was up and busy at his loom In summer ere the mower's scythe had swept The dewy grass, and in the early spring Ere the last star had vanished. They who passed 125 At evening, from behind the garden-fence Might hear his busy spade, which he would ply After his daily work till the daylight Was gone, and every leaf and flower were lost In the dark hedges. So they passed their days 130 In peace and comfort and two pretty babes Were their best hope next to the God in heaven. You may remember, now some ten years gone, Two blighting seasons when the fields were left With half a harvest. It pleased heaven to add 135 A 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 cottages I with my pack of winter raiment saw 140 The hardships of that season. Many rich Sunk down us in a dream among the poor, And of the poor did many cease to be, And their place knew them not. Meanwhile, abridged Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled 145 To numerous self-denials, Margaret Went struggling on through those calamitous years With cheerful hope. But ere the second autumn, A fever seized her husband. In disease He lingered long, and when his strength returned 150 He found the little he had stored to meet The hour of accident, or crippling age, Was all consumed. As I have said, 'twas now A time of trouble: shoals of artisans Were from their daily labour turned away 155 Го hang for bread on parish chanty They and their wives and children — happier far Could they have lived as do the little birds That peck along the hedges, or the kite That makes her dwelling in the mountain rocks. 160 Ill fared it now with Robert, he who dwelt In this poor cottage. At his door he stood And whistled many a snatch of merry tunes That had no mirth in them, or with his knife Carved uncouth figures on the heads of sticks; 165 Then idly sought about through every nook Or house or garden any casual task Of use or ornament and with a strange, Amusing but uneasy novelty He blended where he might the various tasks 170 Of summer, autumn, winter, and of spring, But this endured not; his good humour soon Became a weight in which no pleasure was, And poverty brought on a petted mood And a sore temper. Day by day he drooped, 175 And he would leave his home, and to the town Without an errand would he turn his steps, Or wander here and there among the fields. One while he would speak lightly of his babes And with a cruel tongue; at other times 180 He played with them wild freaks of merriment, And 'twas a piteous thing to see the looks Of the poor innocent children. "Every smile", Said Margaret to me here beneath these trees, "Made my heart bleed.” At this the old man paused, 185 And looking up to those enormous elms He 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 rest Are cheerful, while this multitude of flies 190 Fills 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 humanity From natural wisdom turn our hearts away, 195 To natural comfort shut our eyes and ears, And feeding on disquiet, thus disturb The calm of Nature with our restless thoughts?'