No More Learning

It was a spot, where, ancient vows fulfilled,
Kind pious hands did to the Virgin build
A lonely Spital, the belated swain 150
From the night terrors of that waste to shield:
But there no human being could remain,
And now the walls are named the "Dead House" of the plain.


XVIII

Though he had little cause to love the abode
Of man, or covet sight of mortal face, 155
Yet when faint beams of light that ruin showed,
How glad he was at length to find some trace
Of human shelter in that dreary place.
Till to his flock the early shepherd goes,
Here shall much-needed sleep his frame embrace. 160
In a dry nook where fern the floor bestrows
He lays his stiffened limbs,--his eyes begin to close;


XIX

When hearing a deep sigh, that seemed to come
From one who mourned in sleep, he raised his head,
And saw a woman in the naked room 165
Outstretched, and turning on a restless bed:
The moon a wan dead light around her shed.
He waked her--spake in tone that would not fail,
He hoped, to calm her mind; but ill he sped,
For of that ruin she had heard a tale 170
Which now with freezing thoughts did all her powers assail;


XX

Had heard of one who, forced from storms to shroud,
Felt the loose walls of this decayed Retreat
Rock to incessant neighings shrill and loud,
While his horse pawed the floor with furious heat; 175
Till on a stone, that sparkled to his feet,
Struck, and still struck again, the troubled horse:
The man half raised the stone with pain and sweat,
Half raised, for well his arm might lose its force
Disclosing the grim head of a late murdered corse. 180


XXI

Such tale of this lone mansion she had learned,
And, when that shape, with eyes in sleep half drowned,
By the moon's sullen lamp she first discerned,
Cold stony horror all her senses bound.
Her he addressed in words of cheering sound; 185
Recovering heart, like answer did she make;
And well it was that, of the corse there found,
In converse that ensued she nothing spake;
She knew not what dire pangs in him such tale could wake.


XXII

But soon his voice and words of kind intent 190
Banished that dismal thought; and now the wind
In fainter howlings told its _rage_ was spent:
Meanwhile discourse ensued of various kind,
Which by degrees a confidence of mind
And mutual interest failed not to create. 195
And, to a natural sympathy resigned,
In that forsaken building where they sate
The Woman thus retraced her own untoward fate.
[6]


XXIII

"By Derwent's side my father dwelt--a man
Of virtuous life, by pious parents bred; [7] 200
And I believe that, soon as I began
To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed,
And in his hearing there my prayers I said:
And afterwards, by my good father taught,
I read, and loved the books in which I read; 205
For books in every neighbouring house I sought,
And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought.


XXIV [8]

"A little croft we owned--a plot of corn,
A garden stored with peas, and mint, and thyme,
And flowers for posies, oft on Sunday morn 210
Plucked while the church bells rang their earliest chime.
Can I forget our freaks at shearing time!
My hen's rich nest through long grass scarce espied;
The cowslip-gathering in June's dewy prime;
The swans that with white chests upreared in pride 215
Rushing and racing came to meet me at the water-side! [9]


XXV

"The staff I well [10] remember which upbore
The bending body of my active sire;
His seat beneath the honied sycamore
Where [11] the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire; 220
When market-morning came, the neat attire
With which, though bent on haste, myself I decked;
Our watchful house-dog, that would tease and tire
The stranger till its barking-fit I checked; [12]
The red-breast, known for years, which at my casement pecked. 225


XXVI

"The suns of twenty summers danced along,--
Too little marked how fast they rolled away:
But, through severe mischance and cruel wrong,
My father's substance fell into decay:
We toiled and struggled, hoping for a day 230
When Fortune might [13] put on a kinder look;
But vain were wishes, efforts vain as they;
He from his old hereditary nook
Must part; the summons [14] came;--our final leave we took.
[15]
[16]


XXVII

"It was indeed a miserable hour [17] 235
When, from the last hill-top, my sire surveyed,
Peering above the trees, the steeple tower
That on his marriage day sweet music made!
Till then, he hoped his bones might there be laid
Close by my mother in their native bowers: 240
Bidding me trust in God, he stood and prayed;--
I could not pray:--through tears that fell in showers
Glimmered our dear-loved home, alas! no longer ours! [18]


XXVIII

"There was a Youth whom I had loved so long,
That when I loved him not I cannot say: 245
'Mid the green mountains many a thoughtless song [19]
We two had sung, like gladsome birds [20] in May;
When we began to tire of childish play,
We seemed still more and more to prize each other;
We talked of marriage and our marriage day; 250
And I in truth did love him like a brother,
For never could I hope to meet with such another.


XXIX

"Two years were passed since to a distant town
He had repaired to ply a gainful trade: [21]
What tears of bitter grief, till then unknown! 255
What tender vows our last sad kiss delayed!
To him we turned:--we had no other aid:
Like one revived, upon his neck I wept;
And her whom he had loved in joy, he said,
He well could love in grief; his faith he kept; 260
And in a quiet home once more my father slept.


XXX

"We lived in peace and comfort; and were blest
With daily bread, by constant toil supplied. [22]
Three lovely babes had lain upon my breast; [23]
And often, viewing their sweet smiles, I sighed, 265
And knew not why. My happy father died,
When threatened war [24] reduced the children's meal:
Thrice happy! that for him the grave could hide [25]
The empty loom, cold hearth, and silent wheel,
And tears that [26] flowed for ills which patience might [27] 270
not heal.


XXXI

"'Twas a hard change; an evil time was come;
We had no hope, and no relief could gain:
But soon, with proud parade, [28] the noisy drum
Beat round to clear [29] the streets of want and pain.
My husband's arms now only served to strain 275
Me and his children hungering in his view;
In such dismay my prayers and tears were vain:
To join those miserable men he flew,
And now to the sea-coast, with numbers more, we drew.


XXXII

"There were we long neglected, and we bore 280
Much sorrow ere the fleet its anchor weighed [30]
Green fields before us, and our native shore,
We breathed a pestilential air, that made
Ravage for which no knell was heard. We prayed
For our departure; wished and wished--nor knew, 285
'Mid that long sickness and those hopes delayed, [31]
That happier days we never more must view.
The parting signal streamed--at last the land withdrew.