Poems, 1799 Part 13

ECLOGUE III.

THE FUNERAL.

The coffin [1] 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 pa.s.ses 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 ingrat.i.tude 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 G.o.d To take her to his mercy.

[Footnote 1: It is proper to remark that the story related in this Eclogue is strictly true. I met the funeral, and learnt the circ.u.mstances in a village in Hamps.h.i.+re. The indifference of the child was mentioned to me; indeed no addition whatever has been made to the story. I should have thought it wrong to have weakened the effect of a faithful narrative by adding any thing.]

ECLOGUE IV.

THE SAILOR'S MOTHER.

WOMAN.

Sir for the love of G.o.d some small relief To a poor woman!

TRAVELLER.

Whither are you bound?

'Tis a late hour to travel o'er these downs, No house for miles around us, and the way Dreary and wild. The evening wind already Makes one's teeth chatter, and the very Sun, Setting so pale behind those thin white clouds, Looks cold. 'Twill be a bitter night!

WOMAN.

Aye Sir 'Tis cutting keen! I smart at every breath, Heaven knows how I shall reach my journey's end, For the way is long before me, and my feet, G.o.d help me! sore with travelling. I would gladly, If it pleased G.o.d, lie down at once and die.

TRAVELLER.

Nay nay cheer up! a little food and rest Will comfort you; and then your journey's end Will make amends for all. You shake your head, And weep. Is it some evil business then That leads you from your home?

WOMAN.

Sir I am going To see my son at Plymouth, sadly hurt In the late action, and in the hospital Dying, I fear me, now.

TRAVELLER.

Perhaps your fears Make evil worse. Even if a limb be lost There may be still enough for comfort left An arm or leg shot off, there's yet the heart To keep life warm, and he may live to talk With pleasure of the glorious fight that maim'd him, Proud of his loss. Old England's grat.i.tude Makes the maim'd sailor happy.

WOMAN.

'Tis not that-- An arm or leg--I could have borne with that.

'Twas not a ball, it was some cursed thing That bursts [1] and burns that hurt him. Something Sir They do not use on board our English s.h.i.+ps It is so wicked!

TRAVELLER.

Rascals! a mean art Of cruel cowardice, yet all in vain!

WOMAN.

Yes Sir! and they should show no mercy to them For making use of such unchristian arms.

I had a letter from the hospital, He got some friend to write it, and he tells me That my poor boy has lost his precious eyes, Burnt out. Alas! that I should ever live To see this wretched day!--they tell me Sir There is no cure for wounds like his. Indeed 'Tis a hard journey that I go upon To such a dismal end!

TRAVELLER.

He yet may live.

But if the worst should chance, why you must bear The will of heaven with patience. Were it not Some comfort to reflect your son has fallen Fighting his country's cause? and for yourself You will not in unpitied poverty Be left to mourn his loss. Your grateful country Amid the triumph of her victory Remember those who paid its price of blood, And with a n.o.ble charity relieves The widow and the orphan.

WOMAN.

G.o.d reward them!

G.o.d bless them, it will help me in my age But Sir! it will not pay me for my child!

TRAVELLER.

Was he your only child?

WOMAN.

My only one, The stay and comfort of my widowhood, A dear good boy!--when first he went to sea I felt what it would come to,--something told me I should be childless soon. But tell me Sir If it be true that for a hurt like his There is no cure? please G.o.d to spare his life Tho' he be blind, yet I should be so thankful!

I can remember there was a blind man Lived in our village, one from his youth up Quite dark, and yet he was a merry man, And he had none to tend on him so well As I would tend my boy!

TRAVELLER.

Of this be sure His hurts are look'd to well, and the best help The place affords, as rightly is his due, Ever at hand. How happened it he left you?

Was a seafaring life his early choice?

WOMAN.

No Sir! poor fellow--he was wise enough To be content at home, and 'twas a home As comfortable Sir I even tho' I say it, As any in the country. He was left A little boy when his poor father died, Just old enough to totter by himself And call his mother's name. We two were all, And as we were not left quite dest.i.tute We bore up well. In the summer time I worked Sometimes a-field. Then I was famed for knitting, And in long winter nights my spinning wheel Seldom stood still. We had kind neighbours too And never felt distress. So he grew up A comely lad and wonderous well disposed; I taught him well; there was not in the parish A child who said his prayers more regular, Or answered readier thro' his catechism.

If I had foreseen this! but 'tis a blessing We do'nt know what we're born to!

TRAVELLER.