English Eclogues VI - The Ruined Cottage
Aye
Charles!
I
knew
that
this
would
fix
thine
eye,
This
woodbine
wreathing
round
the
broken
porch,
Its
leaves
just
withering,
yet
one
autumn
flower
Still
fresh
and
fragrant;
and
yon
holly-hock
That
thro'
the
creeping
weeds
and
nettles
tall
Peers
taller,
and
uplifts
its
column'd
stem
Bright
with
the
broad
rose-blossoms.
I
have
seen
Many
a
fallen
convent
reverend
in
decay,
And
many
a
time
have
trod
the
castle
courts
And
grass-green
halls,
yet
never
did
they
strike
Home
to
the
heart
such
melancholy
thoughts
As
this
poor
cottage.
Look,
its
little
hatch
Fleeced
with
that
grey
and
wintry
moss;
the
roof
Part
mouldered
in,
the
rest
o'ergrown
with
weeds,
House-leek
and
long
thin
grass
and
greener
moss;
So
Nature
wars
with
all
the
works
of
man.
And,
like
himself,
reduces
back
to
earth
His
perishable
piles.
I
led
thee
here
Charles,
not
without
design;
for
this
hath
been
My
favourite
walk
even
since
I
was
a
boy;
And
I
remember
Charles,
this
ruin
here,
The
neatest
comfortable
dwelling
place!
That
when
I
read
in
those
dear
books
that
first
Woke
in
my
heart
the
love
of
poesy,
How
with
the
villagers
Erminia
dwelt,
And
Calidore
for
a
fair
shepherdess
Forgot
his
quest
to
learn
the
shepherd's
lore;
My
fancy
drew
from,
this
the
little
hut
Where
that
poor
princess
wept
her
hopeless
love,
Or
where
the
gentle
Calidore
at
eve
Led
Pastorella
home.
There
was
not
then
A
weed
where
all
these
nettles
overtop
The
garden
wall;
but
sweet-briar,
scenting
sweet
The
morning
air,
rosemary
and
marjoram,
All
wholesome
herbs;
and
then,
that
woodbine
wreath'd
So
lavishly
around
the
pillared
porch
Its
fragrant
flowers,
that
when
I
past
this
way,
After
a
truant
absence
hastening
home,
I
could
not
chuse
but
pass
with
slacken'd
speed
By
that
delightful
fragrance.
Sadly
changed
Is
this
poor
cottage!
and
its
dwellers,
Charles!--
Theirs
is
a
simple
melancholy
tale,
There's
scarce
a
village
but
can
fellow
it,
And
yet
methinks
it
will
not
weary
thee,
And
should
not
be
untold.
A
widow
woman
Dwelt
with
her
daughter
here;
just
above
want,
She
lived
on
some
small
pittance
that
sufficed,
In
better
times,
the
needful
calls
of
life,
Not
without
comfort.
I
remember
her
Sitting
at
evening
in
that
open
door
way
And
spinning
in
the
sun;
methinks
I
see
her
Raising
her
eyes
and
dark-rimm'd
spectacles
To
see
the
passer
by,
yet
ceasing
not
To
twirl
her
lengthening
thread.
Or
in
the
garden
On
some
dry
summer
evening,
walking
round
To
view
her
flowers,
and
pointing,
as
she
lean'd
Upon
the
ivory
handle
of
her
stick,
To
some
carnation
whose
o'erheavy
head
Needed
support,
while
with
the
watering-pot
Joanna
followed,
and
refresh'd
and
trimm'd
The
drooping
plant;
Joanna,
her
dear
child,
As
lovely
and
as
happy
then
as
youth
And
innocence
could
make
her.
Charles!
it
seems
As
tho'
I
were
a
boy
again,
and
all
The
mediate
years
with
their
vicissitudes
A
half-forgotten
dream.
I
see
the
Maid
So
comely
in
her
Sunday
dress!
her
hair,
Her
bright
brown
hair,
wreath'd
in
contracting
curls,
And
then
her
cheek!
it
was
a
red
and
white
That
made
the
delicate
hues
of
art
look
loathsome,
The
countrymen
who
on
their
way
to
church
Were
leaning
o'er
the
bridge,
loitering
to
hear
The
bell's
last
summons,
and
in
idleness
Watching
the
stream
below,
would
all
look
up
When
she
pass'd
by.
And
her
old
Mother,
Charles!
When
I
have
beard
some
erring
infidel
Speak
of
our
faith
as
of
a
gloomy
creed,
Inspiring
fear
and
boding
wretchedness.
Her
figure
has
recurr'd;
for
she
did
love
The
sabbath-day,
and
many
a
time
has
cross'd
These
fields
in
rain
and
thro'
the
winter
snows.
When
I,
a
graceless
boy,
wishing
myself
By
the
fire-side,
have
wondered
why
'she'
came
Who
might
have
sate
at
home.
One
only
care
Hung
on
her
aged
spirit.
For
herself,
Her
path
was
plain
before
her,
and
the
close
Of
her
long
journey
near.
But
then
her
child
Soon
to
be
left
alone
in
this
bad
world,--
That
was
a
thought
that
many
a
winter
night
Had
kept
her
sleepless:
and
when
prudent
love
In
something
better
than
a
servant's
slate
Had
placed
her
well
at
last,
it
was
a
pang
Like
parting
life
to
part
with
her
dear
girl.
One
summer,
Charles,
when
at
the
holydays
Return'd
from
school,
I
visited
again
My
old
accustomed
walks,
and
found
in
them.
A
joy
almost
like
meeting
an
old
friend,
I
saw
the
cottage
empty,
and
the
weeds
Already
crowding
the
neglected
flowers.
Joanna
by
a
villain's
wiles
seduced
Had
played
the
wanton,
and
that
blow
had
reach'd
Her
mother's
heart.
She
did
not
suffer
long,
Her
age
was
feeble,
and
the
heavy
blow
Brought
her
grey
hairs
with
sorrow
to
the
grave.
I
pass
this
ruin'd
dwelling
oftentimes
And
think
of
other
days.
It
wakes
in
me
A
transient
sadness,
but
the
feelings
Charles
That
ever
with
these
recollections
rise,
I
trust
in
God
they
will
not
pass
away.
