English Eclogues III - The Funeral
The
coffin
as
I
past
across
the
lane
Came
sudden
on
my
view.
It
was
not
here,
A
sight
of
every
day,
as
in
the
streets
Of
the
great
city,
and
we
paus'd
and
ask'd
Who
to
the
grave
was
going.
It
was
one,
A
village
girl,
they
told
us,
who
had
borne
An
eighteen
months
strange
illness,
and
had
pined
With
such
slow
wasting
that
the
hour
of
death
Came
welcome
to
her.
We
pursued
our
way
To
the
house
of
mirth,
and
with
that
idle
talk
That
passes
o'er
the
mind
and
is
forgot,
We
wore
away
the
time.
But
it
was
eve
When
homewardly
I
went,
and
in
the
air
Was
that
cool
freshness,
that
discolouring
shade
That
makes
the
eye
turn
inward.
Then
I
heard
Over
the
vale
the
heavy
toll
of
death
Sound
slow;
it
made
me
think
upon
the
dead,
I
questioned
more
and
learnt
her
sorrowful
tale.
She
bore
unhusbanded
a
mother's
name,
And
he
who
should
have
cherished
her,
far
off
Sail'd
on
the
seas,
self-exil'd
from
his
home,
For
he
was
poor.
Left
thus,
a
wretched
one,
Scorn
made
a
mock
of
her,
and
evil
tongues
Were
busy
with
her
name.
She
had
one
ill
Heavier,
neglect,
forgetfulness
from
him
Whom
she
had
loved
so
dearly.
Once
he
wrote,
But
only
once
that
drop
of
comfort
came
To
mingle
with
her
cup
of
wretchedness;
And
when
his
parents
had
some
tidings
from
him,
There
was
no
mention
of
poor
Hannah
there,
Or
'twas
the
cold
enquiry,
bitterer
Than
silence.
So
she
pined
and
pined
away
And
for
herself
and
baby
toil'd
and
toil'd,
Nor
did
she,
even
on
her
death
bed,
rest
From
labour,
knitting
with
her
outstretch'd
arms
Till
she
sunk
with
very
weakness.
Her
old
mother
Omitted
no
kind
office,
and
she
work'd
Hard,
and
with
hardest
working
barely
earn'd
Enough
to
make
life
struggle
and
prolong
The
pains
of
grief
and
sickness.
Thus
she
lay
On
the
sick
bed
of
poverty,
so
worn
With
her
long
suffering
and
that
painful
thought
That
at
her
heart
lay
rankling,
and
so
weak,
That
she
could
make
no
effort
to
express
Affection
for
her
infant;
and
the
child,
Whose
lisping
love
perhaps
had
solaced
her
With
a
strange
infantine
ingratitude
Shunn'd
her
as
one
indifferent.
She
was
past
That
anguish,
for
she
felt
her
hour
draw
on,
And
'twas
her
only
comfoft
now
to
think
Upon
the
grave.
"Poor
girl!"
her
mother
said,
"Thou
hast
suffered
much!"
"aye
mother!
there
is
none
"Can
tell
what
I
have
suffered!"
she
replied,
"But
I
shall
soon
be
where
the
weary
rest."
And
she
did
rest
her
soon,
for
it
pleased
God
To
take
her
to
his
mercy.
