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 

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