, , ; , f 1 1 ■ , f 
 
 l 
 
 - 
 
 i I
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 sj
 
 THE 
 
 COTTAGER'S SABBATH.
 
 THE 
 
 COTTAGER^S SABBATH, 
 
 91 ^oem 
 
 BY SAMUEL MULLEN. 
 
 WITH SEVENTEEN STEEL VIGNETTES, 
 
 ENGRAVED BY W. R- SMITH, FROM DESIGNS BY H. WARREN. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 THOMAS MILLER, 9, NEWGATE STREET. 
 
 MDCCCXLI.
 
 London : 
 Printed by Stewart and Mukbay, Old Bailoy.
 
 6/01 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 My principal object in the following pages has been to 
 delineate the simple manners of cottage-life, as it is still 
 to be found in some of the rural districts of England, 
 where the happiest portion of my own days has been 
 spent. The language employed is purposely simple, 
 being more fitted to the ideas than words of loftier sound ; 
 while the incidents and characters introduced, are copied 
 with the closest fidelity from real life. If there be one 
 thing more than another connected with this subject, on 
 which I feel proud, it is the happiness of living in a 
 country where so many men are found who embody in 
 
 937849
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 their lives the soundest practical morality with the most 
 exalted yet unpretending piety. To those who recognise 
 the inseparable connexion between virtue and peace, I 
 leave the fate of The Cottager's Sabbath. 
 
 London, Nov. 15, 1841.
 
 CANTO I.
 
 14% « 
 
 Beside a lane, diverging from a wood. 
 Where tall tree-tops o'er-roofd the grassy way, 
 A white-washed Cot in calm seclusion stood. 
 And, sloping down to face the southern ray, 
 Before the door a well-stocked garden lay ; 
 Clean-weeded beds by winding walks outspread. 
 Where household roots were ripening day by day. 
 And blossomed beans delicious perfume shed. 
 While fruit-trees bending low, arched closely overhead.
 
 2 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 II. 
 
 All round the place a look of comfort beamed. 
 True English comfort, homely, calm and sweet ! 
 The very trees amid their stillness seemed 
 With quiet joy their leafy friends to meet. 
 And on the roses smiled beside their feet : 
 The shaded lane — the soft and balmy air — 
 The breath of flowers new-waked the morn to greet. 
 All seemed so pure, so innocent, and fair. 
 That in such scenes as these, man never need despair. 
 
 III. 
 
 Along the walls sweet-scented creepers hung, 
 Nailed here and there, their fragile stems to stay ; 
 And after rain the gentle breezes flung 
 Such floating fragrance far across the way. 
 As lured the bees from distant fields to stray ; 
 A rustic porch with straggling woodbine dressed. 
 And blooming roses, made the cottage gay ; 
 While near at hand, the plum-tree's welcome guest. 
 Three Summers undisturbed, a thrush had built her nest.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 IV. 
 
 In two small plots with border-box hemmed round, 
 Rare healing plants and choicest pot-herbs grew ; 
 The garden-balm, 'mid village dames renowned. 
 And fragrant thyme, its rich aroma threw 
 O'er mint, and white-leaved sage, and bitter rue. 
 Not far from these, the straw-thatched beehives stood. 
 Where in and out, all day incessant flew 
 The labouring bees, so bent on public good. 
 That idlers none disgraced that busy neighbourhood. 
 
 V. 
 
 A small round pond with flag-stones roughly lined. 
 Was scooped with care beneath the sloping hill. 
 From whence a rippling brook was taught to wind. 
 O'er jutting stones, in many a mimic rill. 
 With plashing sound the little pond to fill : 
 A grassy margin hemmed the water round, 
 No outlet seen the wasting waves to spill, 
 For by a sluice beneath a rustic mound. 
 The water glided through a passage under ground.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 VI. 
 
 One quiet spot — a sweet secluded nook. 
 Displayed a seat of strong, rough-rinded oak, 
 Where, at his ease, with some instructive book. 
 The Cotter oft his evening-pipe would smoke. 
 And meditate on Heaven, or God invoke. 
 There clustering nuts and long thin filberts hung, 
 Beneath the leaves which served their youth to cloak ; 
 While overhead the broad-leaved branches swung, 
 To which in knotted heaps the juicy walnuts clung. 
 
 vn. 
 
 In useless spots, or round about the fence. 
 Wild roses grew, or scented eglantine ; 
 But every part which labour could compense. 
 Was made productive in a different line. 
 And oft might help the family to dine. 
 Here currants mixed with gooseberries did grow, 
 Or scarlet runners might be seen to twine 
 Their long thin tendrils tapering from below. 
 Round rods which rose aloft, in many a goodly row.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 VIII. 
 
 Behind the cot a wooden shed was reared. 
 Where, safely housed, two hornless cows reposed ; 
 And near the pump a low warm sty appeared. 
 In which the well-fed pig supinely dosed 
 Thro' half the day, his drowsy eyelids closed. 
 With nicest skill the cottage-roof was thatched. 
 Its homely walls of quarry-stone composed ; 
 The simple door with string and bobbin matched 
 Inside the roomy porch, showed it was wooden-latched. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Two little fields of twice five acres lay 
 Beyond the pales which formed the garden fence ; 
 In one was seen a stack of new-made hay, 
 Unthatched as yet, until the layers dense 
 Had settled free from inward heats intense. 
 Tall thriving wheat the other field displayed. 
 And young potatoes, grown at small expense. 
 With rows of fruit-trees in long lines arrayed. 
 From which, in former years, his rent the Cotter paid. 
 
 B
 
 6 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 X. 
 
 But now the fields and cottage were his own, 
 With all the trees that in the hedge-rows grew ; 
 And in his humble history might be shown 
 The safest course a good man can pursue. 
 To raise his state, and still be just and true : 
 For he was one whose calm reflective mind 
 Ambitious thoughts and feelings could subdue ; 
 In each event, to Providence resigned, 
 His ever cheerful heart some cause for praise could find. 
 
 XT. 
 
 Time was when he in thriftless trifles spent 
 Each hard day's earnings as the day rolled o'er. 
 Without regarding how his money went. 
 Quite sure, when all was gone, of earning more. 
 As he had done so many times before : 
 A fit of sickness taught him to reflect. 
 And made him feel the curse of being poor, 
 For those he 'd helped now blamed him for neglect, 
 And wondered one like him should aid firom them expect.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 XII. 
 
 To health restored, he fixedly resolved 
 To take his course, whatever might impede ; 
 For while he lay, his labouring thoughts revolved 
 The various plans, by which he might succeed, 
 In future straits to save himself from need : 
 And thus at last his judgment did decide. 
 On no account his income to exceed. 
 But ere his wants or wishes were supplied, 
 A tenth of all he gained should first be laid aside. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 This simple rule he always kept in mind, 
 Altho' his means in narrow compass lay, 
 Yet by degrees he soon began to find, 
 That trifling sums, increasing day by day. 
 Would " tell up " fast if none were ta'en away. 
 The first five years twice twenty pounds he saved — 
 All clearly gained — no backward debts to pay; 
 His future means, on this foundation paved. 
 More ample soon became, and yielded all he craved.
 
 8 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 But not alone this steady path through life 
 Had he pursued, nor single-handed throve ; 
 The cordial labours of his frugal wife 
 Sustained his mind and testified her love ; 
 In heart united both together strove : 
 While he toiled hard to till their " bit of land," 
 She spun the yarn which into shirts they wove ; 
 His simple meals by her contrivance planned. 
 Were always nicely done, and ready to his hand. 
 
 XV. 
 
 And thus for more than one-and-twenty years. 
 Without a jar they journeyed on through life : 
 If e'er he drooped, she soothed away his fears ; 
 If she repined, he calmed her mental strife. 
 For both were wise — the husband and the wife. 
 Four healthy boys and two fine girls they had. 
 Five still at home, but one with promise rife 
 Had gone abroad ; a dark-eyed fearless lad. 
 More thoughtless than they wished, but still they hoped 
 not bad.
 
 One Sabbath morn — (while yet the earth was spread 
 With Hngering mists — the gray sky tinged with gold, 
 Dull vapours coiling round each green hill's head, 
 And indistinct the deep broad river rolled 
 Its dusky length along the marshes cold ; 
 While yet the worm still revelled in the dew. 
 The fleecy flock yet sleeping in the fold, 
 Ere twice the cock his early matins crew) — 
 Two younger boys he took, the rising sun to view.
 
 10 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 For they had heard a village playmate say. 
 How once a-year the sun danced in the sky ; 
 That when he rose betimes the longest day. 
 In curious lines and rapid whirls he'd fly. 
 And gambol up and down before the eye. 
 'Tis strange how wide such notions still prevail 
 In rural glens, where scattered hamlets lie. 
 Each nursing up some legendary tale. 
 By old tradition spread through many an English dale. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 When first his boys brought home this legend gray. 
 He only smiled, and said, " We'll rise and see I" 
 Because he judged that in such errors lay 
 Some lofty truth hard struggling to get free. 
 Or moral deep, with reason to agree : 
 And at the least this lesson he could teach — 
 That facts, not words, their only guides should be ; 
 Lest, when their lives more dangerous years should reach, 
 They might neglect the truth for man's deceitful speech.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 1 1 
 
 XIX. 
 
 To test this tale, they now approached a hill. 
 From whose high summit they could best behold 
 The glorious sun rise up serene and still. 
 Or else perform, as they were lately told. 
 His curious dance, in merry circles rolled. 
 Not much they talked while journeying on their way. 
 But watched to see the gates of light unfold. 
 Where amber clouds like half-drawn curtains lay. 
 Festooned in ample folds around the couch of day. 
 
 XX. 
 
 O'er bright green fields, now thickly pearled with dew. 
 From whence the mists in straggling columns broke. 
 Like flying troops, unfolding to the view 
 The distant woods, where many a sturdy oak 
 Still stood erect, unfeared the woodman's stroke ; 
 Across a meadow, where the full-grown grass 
 In ridgy swathes a plenteous crop bespoke ; 
 Then o'er a brook with rustic bridge they pass. 
 And reach an inland lake, with surface smooth as glass.
 
 12 THE COTTAGER'S SABJ5ATII. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Thin vapoury flakes were steaming from the lake, 
 Presaging sultry heat the coming day ; 
 Unheeding this, along its banks they take 
 In lengthy sweeps their undulating way. 
 Until they reached the lofty hill, which lay 
 In rugged slopes based firmly far and wide. 
 And coated o'er with moss and lichens gray ; 
 While here and there were jutting from its side, 
 Huge fragments of hard rock that would till doomsday bide. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 A zigzag path worn bare by hardy sheep. 
 With frequent bends wound gently up the hill ; 
 Along this path and in a line they keep. 
 The youngest first, to please his anxious will ; 
 Who, proud and glad this honoured post to fill, 
 With looks elate before them sped apace ; 
 But soon, his breath exhausted, he stood still 
 With heaving chest, yet to avoid disgrace. 
 He stooped to pluck some flowers and then resumed his race.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 13 
 
 xxin. 
 
 And thus they gained the summit, ere the sun 
 Above the horizon showed his glorious face ; 
 Though lines of light like streams of glory run 
 In sheeted splendour brightening near the place 
 Where he would first commence his upward race. 
 A solemn silence stilled the earth and sky, 
 As if great Nature's heart had paused to trace 
 That wondrous scene unfolded to the eye. 
 Where, stamped in living lines, bright proofs of Godhead lie. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Majestic, slow, the red round sun uprose. 
 Unlike aught earthly ! — simple ! — grand ! — divine ! 
 His Maker's image fashioned to disclose. 
 To spread through Time truth's everlasting line ; 
 Of God unseen, the bright transparent sign ! 
 Then Nature breathed more freely than before. 
 The dewy earth threw incense on his shrine, 
 The solemn trees a look of gladness wore. 
 And songs of laughing flowers each passing zephyr bore.
 
 14 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 With hands upraised to overshade their eyes. 
 The boys both gazed intently on the sun ; 
 Serenely calm they then beheld him rise, 
 And anxious watched to see the dance begun. 
 Until their eyes were forced his rays to shun. 
 Half blind, they felt imprinted on their view 
 Fictitious orbs, that still before them spun 
 In rapid whirls, and quickly changing hue. 
 Now crimsoned o'er like blood, now yellow, green, or blue. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 Some minutes passed ere they again could bear, 
 To turn their eyes to view that brilliant light. 
 Nor could they then, without reluctance, tear 
 Away the pleasing hope that yet he might 
 Some tricks perform before their eager sight : 
 But when with stolen oft-repeated glance, 
 They found him mounting high the azure height. 
 And still pursue his steady calm advance. 
 They both at once exclaimed, " The sun does never dance !"
 
 ((' 
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 15 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 The sun does dance, my boys," the Cotter said, 
 " Though not as you had vainly hoped to see : 
 His steady course through endless circles led. 
 Is fixed for ages by that firm decree 
 Which made the rolling planets first agree. 
 Were he to move, eccentric, round and round. 
 This reeling earth, from his attraction free. 
 Would rush confused beyond its present bound ; 
 And, dashing wild through space, the neighbouring stars 
 confound. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 " Yon glowing orb is one of many more 
 As large and bright as that we now behold ; 
 By night, like stars, we see them sprinkled o'er 
 The vast blue sky — that book of lettered gold. 
 Of wisdom full, which time may yet unfold. 
 Those stars are suns, each rolling in his course — 
 In order ranged, by that same hand controlled. 
 Which made them all, himself of light the source. 
 Concerning whom the stars the livelong night discourse.
 
 16 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 " But while we live on this small earth below, 
 We cannot see the sun's extended round ; 
 Till heaven is gained, 'tis not for man to know 
 The splendid sights with which the heavens abound, 
 Where suns and stars are all with glory crowned. 
 But when we stand on heaven's high hills divine. 
 And fling our vision through the vast profound — 
 Our piercing sight shall reach the endless line, 
 Where, like these dewdrops thick, the countless planets 
 shine." 
 
 XXX. 
 
 " Oh ! had I wings," exclaimed the elder boy ; 
 " To catch the glorious sun I 'd quickly fly. 
 My panting heart would be so full of joy, 
 To mount aloft, and live in that blue sky. 
 Far, far above yon lark, that soars so high." 
 " You may live there, my son," the father cried, 
 " And will, if you are good, and truly try 
 To copy Him who once on Calvary died 
 To raise you to that sky, and throne you by his side."
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 17 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 The boys both gazed with pleasure in their eyes, 
 While thus their father to their ears addressed 
 Those holy truths he wished them most to prize, 
 Which swayed for aye his own contented breast. 
 His guide through life, in death his only rest. 
 But evermore their youthful spirits wild 
 Broke out in strange remarks or joyful cries ; 
 A bird — a flower — a wall with stones ill-piled. 
 Provoked their ready mirth : the good man turned and 
 smiled. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 To curb the mind with needless rules, he thought 
 Might chafe their spirits till they ceased to feel 
 Those pure emotions gushing forth unsought, 
 Like hidden springs which rocks would fain conceal. 
 Till bursting streams their secret strength reveal. 
 To guide their feelings safely as they rose. 
 And sway the heart by virtue's first appeal, — 
 More lasting good he trusted would disclose. 
 Than if on rigid laws he taught them to repose. 
 
 c
 
 18 ' THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 But now 'twas time to think of going back. 
 For here and there the smoke from chimneys rose ; 
 The sun was rising on his brilHant track. 
 And bees were busy where the wild thyme grows. 
 In far-off fields the congregated crows 
 Discussed affairs with signs of warm debate. 
 Or heaved loose grassy sods which might disclose 
 The sleeping worm, awaked to sudden fate, 
 And writhing to escape ; but, ah ! alas ! too late. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 So down the hill, and by the lake they went, 
 A different way to that by which they came ; 
 In pleasant chat the happy hour was spent. 
 On various subjects needless here to name. 
 Except to note the Cotter's constant aim 
 To lead their opening minds in search of truth ; 
 For well he knew their after-life would claim 
 Its tone and hue, from what they learned in youth- 
 As saplings rise erect, or grow in forms uncouth.
 
 
 Thus when they passed a proud baronial hall, 
 With spreading wings and towers that pierced the sky, 
 For miles surrounded by a lofty wall, 
 Its owner's lordly pomp to gratify. 
 And hide its beauty from the curious eye : 
 The boys both wished a house like that their own, 
 A park as large, a great stone wall as high, 
 Where they might live in grandeur all alone,^— 
 Then would they never mind the king upon his throne.
 
 20 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 " Nor need you mind the king upon his throne," 
 The father said, " nor yet desire to gain 
 Such great estates as this man calls his own. 
 Which often yield less happiness than pain. 
 And make men sigh for absent peace in vain. 
 When we reflect how hard 'twill be to part 
 With these grand halls, and wealth's imposing train, 
 We may conclude 'tis far the wiser art 
 To seek what all may find, — a calm contented heart. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 " Once on a time there lived a mighty king, 
 Who wished to bow the wide world to his sway. 
 So forth he sprang — an eagle on the wing — 
 To war on kings and make their thrones his prey. 
 Destroying nations in his bloody way. 
 When all were conquered, — all, on every side. 
 And no man lived who dared his word gainsay. 
 The grasping wretch was still dissatisfied. 
 And wanting somethiog more, he like a baby cried."
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 21 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 Whereat the boys, half wondering, wished to know 
 Why he should weep when thus possessed of all — 
 When at his bidding men must come and go. 
 And all the world before his feet must fall, 
 With boundless wealth and pleasure at his call ? 
 " Because," their father said, " he hoped to find 
 The honey grow, where God has placed the gall : 
 A foolish man, whose dark and erring mind 
 Would fill his hungry maw by feeding on the wind. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 " Not in the glare and glitter of great wealth. 
 Nor that which wealth produces, pomp and state, 
 Nor yet in power conferred or got by stealth. 
 Nor yet in fame or rank, however great. 
 Hath God confined the bliss of man's estate ; 
 All these possessed, can never give repose. 
 Or charm the stinging conscience to abate 
 The dreadful stripes she evermore bestows 
 Upon the guilty soul with still increasing woes.
 
 22 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XL. . 
 
 " All true enjoyment lies in man's own mind, 
 Depending not on pomp or outward things ; 
 A lowly heart by heavenly grace refined. 
 Unceasing joy to its possessor brings. 
 And o'er his life unclouded sunlight flings ; 
 Unruly passions banished from the breast, 
 With patient faith he bears the ill which clings 
 To human life, believing God knows best, 
 Submissive to his will, and with his fear imprest. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 " On yonder cliflT see that gigantic oak. 
 All torn and rifted, battling with the wind ; 
 Its huge long arms are peeled and crashed and broke, 
 While ghastly rents deform its blighted rind. 
 And fibres rot where once the ivy twined : 
 'Twere better far that stately tree had grown 
 In some low vale surrounded by its kind. 
 Than placed aloft in surly state alone. 
 Where, blasted by the storm, its pride lies overthrown.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 23 
 
 XLII. 
 
 "All things, save man, contented with their lot, 
 Fulfil the task appointed them to do : 
 See how the bees toil on, complaining not, — 
 The careful ants the sultry summer through. 
 Prepare their wintry food, with caution due : 
 The cheerful birds their merry voices raise, — 
 The various beasts their various ends pursue ; 
 Bird, beast, fish, insect, in ten thousand ways 
 Rejoice to do his will, and thus their Maker praise. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 " But foolish man, with lofty reason blest. 
 Forgets its use in pining discontent, — 
 To-morrow's ills his present joys infest ; 
 In idle wish each useful hour is spent. 
 Or labours vain, abundance to augment : 
 True wisdom shows a far superior plan. 
 That we should make the best of what is sent. 
 Do, while we live, whatever good we can. 
 And bear with cheerful thoughts the common lot of man."
 
 24 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 'Twas thus the Cotter chatted with his boys. 
 As on their homeward way they gently strolled, 
 Oft loitering slow to hear the pleasant noise 
 Made by a little brook, that onward rolled. 
 O'er pebbly beds and sand that shone like gold : 
 Sometimes they stopped to catch the distant trill 
 Of larks unseen, whose merry music told 
 With what delight their little hearts must thrill. 
 Since thus their joyous songs the vaulted sky could fill. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 And as they passed along their pleasant way, 
 By hill or dale, or long, green, sweeping lane. 
 Full many a cot and scattered farm-house lay. 
 Securely resting on the smiling plain. 
 By fields surrounded full of various grain : 
 From each lone house a thin blue smoke was seen 
 To rise quite straight, — a certain sign the rain 
 That day would not bedim the sky serene. 
 Or with their evening walk, unwelcome intervene.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 25 
 
 XL VI. 
 
 A gipsy -camp beside a wood they passed. 
 Whereby a heap of smouldering ashes lay. 
 On which large logs of half-dried wood were cast. 
 To keep the fire from burning all away. 
 While they reposed till later in the day. 
 The tents all closed, no signs of life revealed. 
 Save growling dogs which warned them not to stay ; 
 Beneath a hedge their panniers lay concealed. 
 And three strong asses fed within a neighbouring field. 
 
 XL VII. 
 
 The farmer's horses, for the day set free. 
 With heavy gambols frisked about the grass — 
 The farmer's boys laughed loud their freaks to see. 
 Or cracked rough jokes with neighbouring servant lass. 
 Or peeled long sticks their idle hours to pass. 
 In new-washed frock each shone, and showy vest, 
 A kerchief flaming as his sun-burned face — 
 Large gaudy flowers stuck high upon his breast. 
 Straw hat and tight-laced boots that half his leg comprcst.
 
 26 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 A rustic youth, with leave to spend the clay 
 Among his friends, they met upon the road. 
 Just where his sweetheart waited in his way 
 With blushing cheeks, and modest eyes which glowed 
 In bashful joy, as he the kiss bestowed. 
 Her russet gown was plain and neatly made, 
 A single bow her cottage bonnet showed ; 
 A kerchief blue across her shoulders laid, 
 Half opened in the front, her snowy neck displayed. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 With looks of love and simple joy they went, 
 Her arm in his, exulting side by side ; 
 A happy picture of that calm content. 
 Which causes life in quietness to glide. 
 When lowly thoughts extinguish foolish pride. 
 My blessing on them ! Happy may they be ! 
 (Let not the great their humble state deride), 
 With love unbroken may they live to see 
 Their children's children rise, and climb the old man's 
 knee.
 
 And through the fields they saw the milkmaid trip, 
 Her rustic songs unsung this holy day, 
 Her gown tucked up — the pail placed on her hip, 
 With airy steps she trod her dewy way. 
 Just stopping as they passed " good morn" to say. 
 Her rosy cheeks, her laughter-loving eyes. 
 Full pouting lips, and firm round limbs display — 
 What cheerfiil health the early morn supplies ! 
 To those who labour love, and with the lark arise.
 
 28 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 LI. 
 
 Beside the road a ruined abbey stood. 
 Its roofless walls with ivy overgrown ; 
 The crumbling stones and richly carven wood. 
 Were here and there about the pathway strown. 
 In scattered heaps, while fragments lay alone. 
 One lofty arch, yet perfect, served to show 
 How great the shock, by which were overthrown 
 This goodly structure, now in ruin low. 
 And Rome's imperial pride, with one gigantic blow. 
 
 LII. 
 
 Their path led onwards by a little brook. 
 That swept with mimic fury down a dell. 
 Thence round a hill a further circuit took. 
 And met the stream, where, with a sudden swell. 
 Heaved o'er a rock with brawling noise it fell. 
 Then in a tiny lake the water lay. 
 Calm, clear, and cold, cooped in its rocky shell. 
 As if content upon its course to stay. 
 And rest in that cool place, throughout the Sabbath day.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 29 
 
 LIII. 
 
 Beyond this lake, fixed on the sloping hill. 
 By lofty trees half hidden from the view. 
 They passed a rustic antiquated mill. 
 Where all the water of the stream came through 
 To turn a wheel, that turned with much ado. 
 But now the wheel was idle, for the stream 
 Was taught a different passage to pursue. 
 Till that day past, of all the days supreme. 
 Wherein poor mortals may, their mis-spent time redeem. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 Descending deeper through a rocky glen 
 With hoary moss and ivy overgrown. 
 They passed a cave, called " Rip the Robber's den," 
 Wherein, tradition said, he lived alone. 
 For many a year his wild retreat unknown. 
 In long dark nights his daring deeds were done. 
 In secret planned — the act — the gain, his own.; 
 And while he thus, detection cared to shun, 
 An easy life he lived — believing, fearing none.
 
 30 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 LV. 
 
 At length, the story said, he went and stole 
 A mass of money from a rich old man, 
 And bore it off in safety to his hole — 
 O'erjoyed that such success had crowned his plan. 
 But when to count the treasure he began, 
 A sudden noise his guilty breast alarmed ; 
 With eager haste to get his gun he ran, 
 But ere he turned with this destructive armed, 
 A blow upon his wrist his fatal purpose charmed. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 That old man had a daughter, and she loved 
 A youth, her father wished her not to love ; 
 By night, he oft beneath her window moved. 
 To watch her shadow o'er the curtains move — 
 To heave long sighs and adverse fate reprove. 
 That night he watched the robber stealing by. 
 And dogged his steps, half jealous, to the cove ; — 
 The old man smiled and bade the youth draw nigh — 
 And ere the thief was hung, the bridal songs rose high.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 31 
 
 LVII. 
 
 They left the glen, and by a grassy knoll 
 With quicker pace their homeward way ran o'er, 
 Now hungry grown by this long morning's stroll. 
 They took the path that lay straight on before. 
 For sight or sound resolved to stop no more ; 
 O'er gate, or hedge, or roughly-shapen stile. 
 Through half-formed gaps or brambles wild they tore. 
 Despite large boards with prohibitions vile, ^ 
 They tripped the nearest way, which saved them full a mile. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 And so at last they reached that quiet lane, 
 Wherein their own sweet cottage they could see. 
 And near the gate they saw their sisters twain. 
 And their young brother frisking like a bee, 
 Then bounding off to meet them, full of glee. 
 With eager joy the boys beheld him come. 
 And sprang to meet him, shouting " Here we be !" 
 While, with a heart that never wished to roam, 
 The Cottage-Father came rejoicing to his home.
 
 32 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 The anxious wife was waiting near the door. 
 And round her husband's neck her arms she threw, 
 With fond regard she welcomed him once more ; 
 While he more closely to his bosom drew 
 His long-tried friend, in every trial true ; 
 Not theirs the love that cooled with marriage ties. 
 The longer tried the firmer fixed it grew ; 
 They still were dearest in each other's eyes. 
 And deemed each other's smile by far the greatest prize. 
 
 LX. 
 
 The girls too came both clinging round their sire. 
 To gain in turn the long-accustomed kiss ; 
 For haply on the altar no strange fire 
 Had yet been lighted to destroy their bliss. 
 Or wake the sigh for other joy than this. 
 Wife, daughters, boys, all crowding round him, strove 
 Who first should gain (quite sure that none would miss) 
 That warm embrace which daily served to prove 
 How fully they enjoyed his deep unceasing love.
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 D
 
 And now the sun, in cloudless beauty bright, 
 Had warmed the earth, and half absorbed the dew. 
 Save where, with tapering shadows twice their height, 
 Large leafy trees a cool protection threw 
 O'er all the tender herbs that near them grew. 
 The Cotter, who was predisposed to find 
 New cause for praise in all which met his view. 
 Rejoicing, stayed a little while behind. 
 To breathe the grateful thoughts that swelled within his 
 mind.
 
 36 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 II. 
 
 And well he might, for, stretched before his door, 
 Earth's richest scene, an English valley, lay. 
 With rural beauties thickly dotted o'er. 
 Farm-house and cot, and hedge-rows white with May, 
 And pastoral slopes in summer beauty gay ; 
 A sparkling stream, rude bridge, and dusty mill. 
 Long winding road 'twixt meadows full of hay. 
 An old church-spire beyond the distant hill, — 
 All bathed in brilliant light, reposed serenely still. 
 
 III. 
 
 And here and there odd figures might be seen. 
 Such as a Sabbath morning only shows. 
 Who, though they move, scarce break that deep serene. 
 The Sacred day o'er all the country throws. 
 When man and beast alike enjoy repose. 
 Here rustic swains were leaning o'er a gate, 
 The village news to gather or disclose. 
 While o'er the bridge a farmer rode sedate. 
 And in her Sunday gear his wife displayed her state.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 37 
 
 IV. 
 
 Meantime the Cotter's family went in, 
 A joyful group without a single care ; 
 All eager now their breakfasts to begin. 
 They eyed with joy the plain substantial fare. 
 Then jointly ran to place their father's chair. 
 The youngest boy, with small unsteady feet, 
 Mixed with the rest this joyful task to share ; 
 Then toddling off to fetch him to his seat. 
 Cried, " Father, pray come in, my brothers want to eat." 
 
 All things inside bespoke the "day of rest," 
 Made clean and " tidied up " the night before : 
 Their Sunday clothes then taken from the chest ; 
 Their home-spun shirts were aired and well looked o'er ; 
 Shoes, hats, and coats were brushed, and washed the floor. 
 The old dark wheel and distaff put away ; 
 Hoops, bows, and kites, hung up behind the door : 
 Each thing removed that told of work or play. 
 Due preparation showed to keep the Sabbath day.
 
 38 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH, 
 
 VI. 
 
 For they had learned that He to whom they owed 
 Their lives, and all that made their being blest. 
 To cheer mankind in mercy had bestowed 
 One day in seven, to be a day of rest 
 For weary man, with worldly toils opprest : 
 Wherefore to keep his law they ever strove. 
 And banished worldly feelings from the breast. 
 That thus they might the sacred Sabbath prove, 
 A day of holy rest, of peace, and joy, and love. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Across the room a straight-backed settle stood. 
 One end up-running to the chimney nook ; 
 A snug warm place when winter chills the blood. 
 And always cozey with its antique look. 
 Its overhanging shelf and iron crook. 
 On this the polished pot-hooks shining bright. 
 Reflected back the pains their mistress took 
 To make their home a source of true delight. 
 By keeping household things in merest trifles right.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 39 
 
 VIII. 
 
 The warmest corner in that " chimney nook," 
 The grandam held by long-acknowledged right ; 
 Where, on a small old table, lay that Book 
 From whence she drew a strong interior light. 
 Which glowed more brightly with her fading sight : 
 There would she sit the long warm summer's day, — 
 There would she sit the long cold winter's night ; 
 While evermore her Bible open lay. 
 In which at times she read, then knit her worsted grey. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Long had her husband lain within his grave. 
 And silent there her sons and daughters lay ; 
 All, all were dead, except the one who gave 
 His sheltering roof, to shield her wintry day. 
 And loved her true, and wished her long to stay. 
 But oft the tear would gather in her eye. 
 As wakeful memory pictured those away ; 
 Then would she smile, gaze dimly toward the sky. 
 And mutter to herself, " I'm coming by-and-bye."
 
 40 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 X. 
 
 Along the rafters, from the ceiling hung 
 Well-seasoned herbs in various bunches tied ; 
 Part kept because an odour rich they flung, 
 And more because a medicine they supplied. 
 But most of all, for seed thus housed and dried. 
 Here everlasting daisies bloomed with thyme. 
 There sage and rue hung closely side by side ; 
 While marjoram sweet with wormwood rank did chime. 
 Mint, horehound, featherfew, and more, unknown to rhyme. 
 
 XI. 
 
 In good strong ropes two poles suspended hung. 
 Above the door and near the rafters placed. 
 From which in strings the home-fed flitches swung. 
 With hams and chaps and chines of bacon braced, 
 To keep from reist in coarse strong paper cased ; 
 There rows of onions in their bright brown coats, 
 In netted cords were close together laced ; 
 And in a nook where sunlight seldom floats, 
 A bin was snugly placed, well filled with meal and oats.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 41 
 
 XII. 
 
 A thick old plate fixed fast in ebon frame, 
 Beside the window placed against the wall, 
 The honored post of looking-glass might claim. 
 Though slightly cracked and injured by a fall. 
 Had long before it left a baron's hall : 
 The salt-box clean, its round brass nails displayed. 
 Beside the homely dresser, long and tall. 
 Where pewter plates on narrow shelves were laid. 
 Without one speck of dirt their mistress to upbraid. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Across the room outstretched the chimney wide. 
 Above a grate which stood upon the floor. 
 The shelf with brazen candlesticks supphed ; 
 While bright pan-lids hung near the cupboard door, 
 A large old-fashioned thing with brass laid o'er. 
 There shone the pan to warm the chilly bed. 
 The grater rough with many a gaping pore, 
 A dredging box, the mealy flour to spread. 
 And toasting fork of steel to brown their home-made bread.
 
 42 TPIE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 A few old chairs, all odd, but sound and strong, 
 As if at sundry times picked up by chance. 
 Some quaintly carved, with backs upright and long. 
 And one that bore the royal arms of France, 
 Without the crown, knocked off by some mischance. 
 Behind the door there stood a brass-faced clock. 
 From which in turn two giants did advance. 
 With knotted clubs against the bell to knock, 
 While Time pursued his flight regardless of the shock. 
 
 XV. 
 
 A cat and two young kittens full of play. 
 With merry gambols romped about the floor ; 
 An old Dutch mastiff" in a corner lay, 
 And in a cage suspended near the door, 
 A speckled thrush his wild notes warbled o'er ; 
 A jackdaw lamed, the elder boy had found, 
 And nursed him well till he was lame no more ; 
 And when he called, the bird came hopping round. 
 And on his shoulder perched, or skipped about the ground.
 
 An old oak table, quaintly carved below, 
 Where lions' claws and satyrs' heads were seen 
 In grim confusion, grinning in a row. 
 With here and there a cherub stuck between, 
 His chubby face half laughing at the scene. 
 Was standing near the middle of the floor. 
 And laid thereon a napkin white and clean, 
 With home-baked wheaten bread half covered o'er. 
 And mugs with porridge fdled till they could hold no more.
 
 44 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 With cheerful looks they gathered round the board. 
 Good health and hunger pictured in each face ; 
 But ere they ate, with reverence they adored, 
 A solemn silence filling all the place. 
 While, simply sweet, the youngest girl said grace ; 
 The children each this office took in turn, 
 A week about, that they might early trace 
 How God is mingled in each small concern 
 On which our lives depend, and so to love him learn. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Then, with the relish hunger always feels. 
 And right good will they took their homely fare. 
 More thankful far for these substantial meals 
 Than many men for daintiest dishes are. 
 By wealth procured, and cooked with greatest care ; 
 For soft luxurious habits had not spoiled 
 The appetites they gained from country air ; 
 And though at times fatigued and sadly moiled. 
 Yet greatly they enjoyed the food for which they toiled.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 45 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The breakfast o'er, the breakfast things removed. 
 And thanks returned by her who " grace" had said. 
 The pious father took the Book he loved. 
 And in a clear strong voice distinctly read 
 That part of holy writ, where Abraham led 
 His Isaac bound, the child of his old age. 
 On whom he gazed with mingled love and dread. 
 While journeying o'er that long dark pilgrimage. 
 In which his faith in God had made him first engage : 
 
 XX. 
 
 And how he laid him bound along the wood. 
 The big tears trembling as the victim smiled. 
 One hand upraised to shed his young warm blood — 
 His Isaac's blood — the long, long-promised child — 
 The nestling of his heart — the kind — the mild ! 
 Oh ! Faith, how strange is thy exalted power. 
 By thoughtless fools rejected or reviled ! 
 The hungry knife shall not his life devour — 
 He lives ! — he lives to shew thy most triumphant hour !
 
 46 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 In strains devout they then together raised 
 Their morning hymn to Abraham's God and friend ; 
 With artless words his Providence they praised, 
 Which did through dangers of the night defend. 
 And shewed that they might still on him depend. 
 For all the mercies which his hands supplied 
 (And all their mercies did from God descend) 
 They still would praise and trust him for their Guide, 
 While sun, and moon, and stars, his goodness testified. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Then kneeling down, with unaffected words 
 The father's voice in prayer devout arose ; 
 With modest skill he touched those trembling chords 
 The human heart in every station knows. 
 When light divine its hidden weakness shows. 
 Poor nature's failings and her sins he wailed. 
 And strength besought temptation to oppose. 
 Expressed a doubt, that where the strong had failed. 
 The poor weak lambs must fall, unless their God prevailed.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 47 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 But soon his prayer assumed a bolder tone, 
 And notes of triumph mingled in the strain ; 
 He spoke of Christ, — his passion and his throne, — 
 His melting heart, — his touch of human pain, — 
 His power supreme, and everlasting reign ! 
 And then his faith appeared to grasp the Cross, 
 And every moment firmer hold to gain, 
 Till worldly things were valueless as dross, 
 And life grew out of death, and gain arose from loss. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 " Aye ! let the winds howl fiercely round their bark, 
 The surges rise, the thundering tempest roll. 
 The sky weep blood, the sun and stars grow dark. 
 The earth in flames, convulsed from pole to pole ; — 
 Yet what could harm the trusting Christian's soul ? 
 Was not the arm omnipotent their shield ? 
 Could not that arm both man and fiend control ? 
 And had not He, to whom all creatures yield. 
 His boundless love to man in Jesus Christ revealed ?"
 
 48 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 With thoughts and feelings far too high for words, 
 His heart-felt prayer in praises died away ; 
 Delicious tones still trembling through the chords. 
 While broken visions in the distance lay, 
 In sunlight steeped, or glory's dim display. 
 The secret chambers of his heart were filled 
 With that pure light, whose everlasting ray 
 Descends from God, man's humble faith to gild. 
 And brighten o'er his hopes with ripening raptures thrill'd. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 And now the time for Sunday school draws nigh, 
 Where both the boys and both the girls must go 
 To gain the truths, these useful means supply. 
 Through which in goodness they may learn to grow. 
 And live respected, though their lot be low ; 
 Their father, now the leading teacher there. 
 Before the door is walking to and fro, 
 Whereby they know they have no time to spare. 
 And so for school at once both girls and boys prepare.
 
 ' THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 49 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 The boys, soon ready, reached their caps, and went 
 To join their father near the garden gate ; 
 But o'er the girls a longer time was spent. 
 To smooth their frocks, and place their collars straight, 
 To tie their bonnets, and their frills to plait. 
 All this the anxious mother did with care, 
 And turned them round with looks of joy elate. 
 Then kissed their cheeks, and bade them both beware 
 Their bonnets not to soil, nor yet their garments tear. 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 Outside the gate two cocks and many hens 
 Were cackling, scratching, pecking in the lane, 
 While some, with chickens placed in wicker pens. 
 Seemed quite content in durance to remain, 
 And teach their young to pick the golden grain. 
 The ducks and geese were splashing in a pool, 
 Made long before, their little field to drain. 
 Now mantled thick with duck-weed green and cool, 
 'Mid which the geese made sport, as they went off to school. 
 
 E
 
 50 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 With cheerful looks, and garments whole and clean, 
 They left their home, and sauntered down the lane 
 To where the school stood on the village-green. 
 Well fenced around with strong oak-palings plain, 
 Each urchin rude from mischief to refrain. 
 It was an old Elizabethan pile. 
 Built long before, and destined to contain 
 Twelve scholars free, until a patron vile 
 With smooth and oily words, the parish did beguile. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Not far from thence the Maypole could be seen. 
 On which still hung the branches and the flowers. 
 So lately used, but now no longer green ; 
 For Time his loveliest children still devours. 
 And these, like men, have their appointed hours. 
 And yet, methinks these rustic customs throw 
 A graceful charm about our English bowers, 
 That other lands in vain attempt to show, 
 Which makes old Father Time with more reluctance go.
 
 :■ >"**Sr 
 
 Around the green the village houses stood. 
 Some back to back were placed, some side by side. 
 These built of brick, and those of brick and wood ; 
 Here high and tall, there low and straggling wide. 
 And some which all descriptive power defied, — 
 High gable ends with chimneys all awry. 
 And low thatched roofs with houseleek well supplied 
 With here and there a dove-cot round and high 
 A cow-shed or a barn, a stable or a sty.
 
 52 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 There stood the ale-house with its antique sign. 
 Whereon some waggish painter had portrayed 
 Three hogs in armour marching in a line, 
 As stiff and straight as if they knew the trade 
 Of cutting throats, like soldiers ready made. 
 By some 'twas thought the satire was designed 
 To show how men, by brutish passions swayed. 
 Had lost all strength and dignity of mind, 
 And sunk into the beast — mere hogs in armour shrined. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Beside his house a blacksmith's forge appeared, 
 A low thatched building with an open shed ; 
 Against the sides old crazy wheels were reared. 
 Or worn-out ploughs about the place were spread. 
 And one large weather-cock without a head ; 
 Some lazy louts wdth rough unshaven chins 
 (The nuisance of each place where they are bred,) 
 Were skulking there, and kicked each other's shins. 
 Or gibed the passer-by with vulgar jests and grins.
 
 THE COTTAGERS SABBATH. 53 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 The shop wherein on week-days were exposed, 
 At door and window, various things for sale, 
 Demurely now all apertures had closed 
 That faced the road, — no sign of weight or scale ; 
 But turn the corner — what a different tale ! 
 There stands the man of measures and of weights. 
 On whom each lazy slattern can prevail 
 To weigh the snuff or serve a " pound of eights," 
 While she some patched-up lie, with ready tongue relates. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 And there, as if at least one-half ashamed. 
 The butcher's shop, had all the shutters closed. 
 Although the door wide open still proclaimed 
 How for his neighbour's welfare he exposed 
 His soul to hell with cheerful looks composed. 
 The baker too, refining further still, 
 Through half the doon* his willingness disclosed. 
 With eager haste, the hungry mouth to fill. 
 Provided they who came put money in the till.
 
 54 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 The carrier's cart, thick splashed with mire and clay, 
 With rampant shafts stood near its owner's door : 
 The load of sundries just removed away 
 He brought from town, too late the night before 
 To take them home, though promised o'er and o'er. 
 But carrier Joe so loved a jug of ale. 
 So often filled, and filled again once more, 
 Just while he heard, or while he told, a tale, 
 Till Joe quite tipsy grew, for Joe was rather frail. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 The village pinfold stood behind the school, 
 Where three old yews their heavy branches threw, 
 Which made the place in hottest summer cool. 
 And warm and snug, when wintry breezes blew. 
 And this was right, for those confined ne'er knew 
 The subtle claims of property and law ; 
 And if they strayed where fresher herbage grew 
 'Twas but because they felt great nature draw 
 Her children to her breast, to fill their hungry maw.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 55 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 The wooden stocks beside the pinfold stood. 
 Where petty rogues their lazy limbs reclin'd, 
 A sorry scene ; — and yet for public good 
 These painful sights were all at first designed, 
 To show how closely sin and shame were twined. 
 There too the roundhouse built of coarse rough stone, 
 Wherein they kept those sturdy thieves confined. 
 Whose itching palms, to stealing ever prone. 
 Their honest neighbours' goods could never leave alone. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Close by the school a little streamlet ran 
 Of clear spring-water, o'er its pebbly bed ; 
 To which the village-maids with pot or pan, 
 Or brown stone jug, as fate or fancy led. 
 To fetch the sparkling fluid often sped. 
 And there young boys in summer days would wade. 
 Or splash their clothes which on the banks were spread; 
 Some, stretched supine, in lazy lengths were laid. 
 While some each other chased, or mimic tempest made.
 
 56 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XL. 
 
 Now o'er the green, beneath the sheltering trees. 
 From every side the village -children came 
 Here one by one, and there by twos and threes, 
 Of either sex, of various age and name, 
 All active things, save one, and he was lame. 
 Some tripped along like fairies o'er the green, 
 While others lagged like culprits full of shame ; 
 And here and there a taller girl was seen 
 Her little sister's steps to tend with careful mien. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 The doors unlocked, the ardent boys rushed in. 
 With smiling faces jostling to and fro. 
 Each striving hard to gain the favourite pin 
 Whereon his hat or cap he might bestow — 
 The greatest triumph which he then might know. 
 And then the girls, more modest and more mild. 
 With gentle steps came in, each curtsying low 
 Before their teachers, who looked on and smiled. 
 Rejoicing in their task to teach the poor man's child.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 57 
 
 XLII. 
 
 Just as the clock tolled forth the hour of nine, 
 The school began with simple strains of praise ; 
 Exciting thus the children to combine. 
 The pleasant song of gratitude to raise 
 To God, whose kindness still prolonged their days ; 
 Then kneeling down, a solemn prayer was made. 
 That He would guide them through life's winding ways. 
 In darkness cheer, in strong temptation aid. 
 And o'er them still to cast His all-protecting shade. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 And then the labours of the school began ; 
 The classes placed to cipher, or to write. 
 While younger groups about their teachers ran, 
 To spell or read, or weekly task recite. 
 Conned o'er and o'er, but yet not learned aright ; 
 Others there were not higher than the knee, 
 Whose lisping tongues might well a smile excite, 
 As oft they tried to learn those letters three — 
 Great giants in their might, the wondrous ABC.
 
 58 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 It was in sooth a very pleasant sight, 
 To cast the eye along that crowded place ; 
 To watch the teachers anxious to invite 
 The youthful mind, with pleasing hopes, to trace 
 The path which leads to wisdom, truth, and grace ; 
 To note the boys their various parts enact. 
 Demurely some, and some with strange grimace, 
 Afforded scope to guess how each would act. 
 When, on life's larger stage, life's things he must transact. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 One dark-eyed boy was laughing, full of glee. 
 Because his neighbour's hat had fallen down. 
 For he was one, who evermore could see 
 Some cause for fun ; a very merry clown. 
 Who would laugh on, despite his teacher's frown : 
 And one sly rogue, mischievously inclined. 
 Placed on another's head a feathery crown. 
 Then leaning back, he pointed from behind. 
 To make the laughing boy new cause for laughter find.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 59 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 An ardent youth, who far outstripped the rest, 
 Had fixed himself within a quiet nook, 
 With eager eye, his lip and brow comprest. 
 He sat absorbed and buried in his book ; 
 Sometimes he gave a long and vacant look. 
 Where through a painted window streamed the light. 
 Then by and bye to read again betook. 
 As if each outward thing, however bright. 
 By that which filled his mind was blotted from the sio-ht. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 A pale-faced boy — a widow's only child, 
 Sat near the door, his long accustomed place ; 
 With gentle haste he took his book and smiled. 
 As if he loved those precious lines to trace. 
 Where Prophets sung of God's redeeming grace : 
 His large blue eyes were radiant with delight. 
 Although disease had trailed along his face 
 Those awful lines, prophetic of the blight 
 His mother's heart must feel, to lose him from her siglit.
 
 60 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 And some were there with dull and sleepy eyes, 
 Who never felt the animating fire 
 Which inborn genius to the heart supplies. 
 And prompts the struggling spirit to aspire 
 Where Fame exalts, and wondering crowds admire. 
 But those which formed by far the greatest class, 
 Had just enough of talent to acquire 
 The small amount of knowledge which would pass 
 Without distinguishment, amid the common mass. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 And now, the school dismissed with praise and prayer. 
 About the green, in joyful groups they strolled. 
 For some few moments which they had to spare, 
 Before the bell its well-known music tolled, 
 Invitino; all to church, both vouno; and old. 
 Then pair by pair, each hand in hand, they passed 
 In ranks grotesque, from laughter scarce controlled, 
 Although their teachers long keen glances cast. 
 And viewing all the line the Cottager came last.
 
 And while the deep bell through the village knolled, 
 From various parts the congregation came : 
 Here walked a pair, both venerably old. 
 There by herself a stooped and withered dame, 
 And next a cripple from his childhood lame. 
 Then household groups moved slowly o'er the green. 
 Or coy young girls with eyes cast down for shame. 
 While further on, amidst the woody screen. 
 The Squire's old roomy coach, and Doctor's gig were seen.
 
 62 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 LI. 
 
 Around the village grew an ancient wood 
 A part of that huge forestry of old 
 Where Sherwood's hero, far-famed Robin Hood, 
 Upheld the freedom of those Saxons bold. 
 Who scorned the Norman's sway, and took his gold. 
 Yet history has not sullied their fair name. 
 Nor mixed them up with common thieves. They hold 
 The rank of patriots fighting to reclaim 
 The country they had lost ! — Long live their honest fame! 
 
 LII. 
 
 One part of this old forest still remained, 
 Of hoary oaks a venerable grove ; 
 Which all its antique majesty retained — 
 Its massy boughs, its stems by lightning clove. 
 Or mossy coat with clustering ivy wove. 
 And in the midst of this wild sylvan scene 
 An open space was sun-lit from above. 
 Where, calmly placed, the village church was seen. 
 Surrounded by a wall, adorned with creepers green.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 63 
 
 LIII. 
 
 Before the porch a vast extensive yew. 
 Whose age extreme, tradition had forgot. 
 O'er half the graves its sombre shadow threw — 
 A needless boon ; for those who lay to rot 
 The sunshine or the storm regarded not. 
 A strong oak seat rough-hewn, ran round the bole. 
 Placed there by one who loved this quiet spot ; 
 Worm-eaten now, each legendary scroll 
 With rude devices grinned, half serious and half droll. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 A Gothic porch projected from the wall. 
 With loop-holes pierced and battlements complete 
 One part disjointed, threatening soon to fall. 
 Where loosened stones protruding from their seat 
 Foretold how Time the builder would defeat. 
 From one huge rent a sapling ash had grown, 
 Its roots still nurtured in their dark retreat ; 
 And as they grew, stone loosened after stone, 
 Until the tottering porch was partly overthrown.
 
 64 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH, 
 
 LV. 
 
 The Church itself, a venerable pile, 
 Though very old, was yet exceeding clean : 
 Long narrow windows in the Gothic style. 
 Stuck here and there along the sides were seen. 
 With buttressed walls and massy flanks between. 
 A square stone tower now ivy-crowned by time. 
 Contained the bell, which had for ages been 
 Still pealing forth the same dull iron chime. 
 Whereby it noted, first, the march of years sublime. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 The walls inside with monuments were graced. 
 Where quaint inscriptions homely truths conveyed ; 
 A large stone tomb, full in the centre placed, 
 Most eloquently spoke of hopes decayed 
 And withered hearts now mouldering in its shade. 
 One fine old tablet deeply carved, contained 
 The beggar's tale, who full of sores was laid 
 Beside the rich man's gate and ne'er complained. 
 Although the fallen crumbs oft asked, he never gained.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 65 
 
 LVII. 
 
 Above the old oak altai', towards the East, 
 Quaint legendary tales in fragments shone 
 Disjointed and obscure ; part like a feast. 
 And part like death — here crowns, and there a bone, 
 All things adverse in strange confusion strown. 
 As if odd portions of the rich-stained glass, 
 From abbeys burned, cathedrals overthrown. 
 Or ruined halls, here gathered in a mass. 
 Subserved a pious use, and showed how ages pass. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 A low oak gallery ran from wall to wall. 
 Carved thickly o'er with many a grotesque face. 
 In whose grim looks we vainly would recall 
 Those distant days, where fancy loves to trace 
 The outlines dim of valour, beauty, grace. 
 While down below large roomy pews were ranged, 
 Where sons still worshipped in their father's place 
 From age to age, by families unchanged, 
 Save one "the stranger's pcw"^ from private use estranged, 
 
 F
 
 G6 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Along the walls old tablets dimly told 
 The age, the name, the virtues of the dead ; 
 Each had some tale peculiar to unfold ; 
 But all alike to one conclusion led, — 
 That man, at last, must death's dark valley tread : 
 The brave, the beautiful, the grave, the gay. 
 The warm young heart, the grey and hoary head. 
 In dull cold silence mixed together lay. 
 Life's poor distinctions lost, reduced to common clay. 
 
 LX. 
 
 But one small tablet, near the pulpit placed, 
 Seemed more attractive far than all the rest ; 
 Its mournful tale was not in letters traced. 
 But shadowed forth in emblems which imprest. 
 With lasting force, their image in the breast : 
 Fixed on a slab of coal-black marble, lay 
 A thin white branch, with three fair rosebuds blest, 
 From which, the first in youthful beauty gay, 
 A sickle's slender edge had partly lopped away.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 67 
 
 LXT. 
 
 This told the parson's story. He, poor man ! 
 Long years before, a widower was made. 
 With three young daughters, in whose veins there ran 
 The same disease, that on their mother preyed, 
 By which he knew too well they all would fade : 
 And yet at times their youthful spirits rose 
 To such a height as they around him played. 
 That he forgot, what time would yet disclose. 
 Until some faint slight sign unsluiced his secret woes. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 Oft when he gazed with passionate delight, 
 On those fair forms just ripening into life. 
 Some turn would brino; their mother to his sight. 
 And wake afresh the agony and strife 
 lie first endured when parting from his wife : 
 And then his eyes with sudden tears grew dim. 
 His boding heart with dismal fancies rife. 
 While ghastly forms before him seemed to swim, 
 A sickness seized his heart and paralysed each limb.
 
 68 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 Yet still he strove to banish from his mind 
 The fearful thought that all his girls must die ; 
 With ceaseless care, he ever sought to find 
 Some cheerful scheme, to which they might apply. 
 And make old Time with lighter wings go by : 
 Now in the fields he 'd stray with them for hours, 
 Now in the woods to catch the birds they 'd try ; 
 Then in their little garden, gathering flowers. 
 With which, with fairy hands, they decked their tiny bowers. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 And thus they grew to womanhood, and one. 
 His eldest girl, was matchless in her mind 
 And in her form, till it had undergone 
 The withering process, which he feared to find 
 Was lurking thief-like all his hopes behind : 
 For many a month, he watched her day by day 
 Decrease in strength, but rise in soul refined. 
 Until at last her spirit broke away. 
 Half shining, ere it passed, transparent through the clay.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 69 
 
 LXV. 
 
 And now he stood, a meek, mild, smitten man, 
 In holj things to minister for God ; 
 With artless words he told the gracious plan. 
 How mercy used, and still would use the rod, 
 And lay the brightest flowers beneath the sod ; 
 " And why, my friends, why is it thus," he cried, 
 " Why should our heavenly Father bruise the clod ? 
 Because He would our souls from sin divide. 
 As gold by fire alone from dross is purified. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 " Yet she was fair, as most of you can tell, 
 And good, beyond the telUng of the tongue ; 
 Forgive me, then, if my full heart should swell. 
 And from mine eyes these scalding tears be wrung. 
 To lose her thus, and she so good — so young ! 
 Forgive me. Father, my torn heart is wild, — 
 I knew not this before, — how close she clung : 
 Thou hast her now — how beautiful, how mild; 
 I would not wish her back — Oh God, thou hast my child !"
 
 70 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 With tears and sobs and oft-repeated sighs. 
 Both young and old her early death bewailed ; 
 While o'er his griefs the parson seemed to rise. 
 As mightier faith within his breast prevailed, 
 And tore the curtains which her glory veiled : 
 " She lives !" he cried, " in circling beauty bright ; 
 The rock is firm ! — Jehovah hath not failed ! 
 Be ours the care, to have our garments white, 
 And rise like her to shine — with Jesus throned in light." 
 
 Lxvm. 
 
 'Twas not in vain, the lesson of that day, 
 The tears were fruitful that bedewed the eye ; 
 More hearts than one from thence began to pray. 
 And fit themselves for mansions in the sky. 
 Now conscious of the truth, that each must die : 
 So Mercy lights the overwhelming gloom 
 Of Death's black shadows which around us lie ; 
 While Hope survives the universal doom. 
 And Life immortal shows transparent through the tomb.
 
 CANTO III.
 
 The service o'er, the congregation gone, 
 Behind the rest the pastor lingered still, 
 That simple tablet by himself to con. 
 Although it waked afresh each bitter thrill. 
 And shook his soul with fears of future ill : 
 Yet still he gazed half-shuddering at the sight, 
 Till, kneeling down, he cried, " Oh God ! thy will. 
 Not mine be done : I know thy ways are right ; 
 Forgive me if I mourn; — she was so pure and bright."
 
 /4 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 II. 
 
 Meanwhile, towards home the Cottager returned, 
 With all his children clustering by his side ; 
 Except the youngest^ who from grandam learned 
 Behind the rest, how Christ for sinners died. 
 By wicked men on Calvary crucified. 
 His little eyes were full of tears, while she 
 Related how his wounds were gaping wide. 
 And the red blood came streaming down the tree 
 Where they had nailed him fast, a piteous sight to see. 
 
 III. 
 
 Along the lane near which their cottage stood. 
 They sauntered slowly homeward in the shade. 
 Oft catching glimpses through the opening wood, 
 Where snugly screened their own sweet cottage made 
 The fairest picture in the sun-lit glade : 
 A thick white smoke above the chimney rolled. 
 In larger masses than was oft displayed ; 
 A sight the boys were happy to behold. 
 For well they knew this sign the dinner-time foretold.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 75 
 
 IV. 
 
 Nor did they long with blank impatience wait, 
 Although they all for grandam had to stay, 
 Where poor old Pug was near the garden gate. 
 And watched them come, then went a little way 
 And wagged his tail, as if he meant to say, 
 "I'm glad you 're come. Excuse me, I am old. 
 Or else, be sure, I 'd meet you blithe and gay : 
 My limbs are stiff, by numbing age controlled, 
 But yet it warms my heart, your faces to behold." 
 
 V. 
 
 With features flushed from toiling near the fire. 
 The wife smiled kindly as they all came in ; 
 She bade the girls fold up their best attire. 
 The boys to hang their caps on nail or pin, 
 But first to wipe their shoes and make no din : 
 Her husband's hat she then herself removed. 
 Delighted most that smiling look to win. 
 By which she knew how fully he approved 
 Each action of her life, and still sincerely loved.
 
 76 THE COTTAGER'S SABJiATH. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Placed on a cloth which her own hands had spun, 
 The dinner smoked inviting to the taste ; 
 A chine of bacon boiled was nicely done, 
 Not over large, midway 'twixt thrift and waste. 
 With young green peas and new potatoes graced ; 
 A large hot pie, with fresh-pulled berries filled. 
 Displayed its round of good substantial paste. 
 Which showed how well the thrifty wife fulfilled 
 The duties of her place, in household matters skilled. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But more than all, the children's eyes were cast 
 Where on a dish a large plum-pudding lay, 
 Not over-rich, yet richer than the last 
 Which they had seen, twelve months before that day. 
 For only once a-year such things had they : 
 And this was made in memory of the son 
 Who by the soldiers had been lured away. 
 And now in foreign countries bore a gun. 
 Where he must still remain, until the war was done.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 77 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And three long tedious years had passed away. 
 And brought no tidings to the parents' ears ; 
 What could they do, but trust in God, and pray 
 For his return in penitential tears. 
 With mended life to cheer their latter years. 
 A neighbour's son, since then enlisted, went, 
 And from the mother, still oppressed with fears, 
 He bore a Bible with her blessing sent. 
 And many an earnest prayer, that George would yet repent. 
 
 IX. 
 
 And so whene'er the soldier's birth-day came, 
 The large plum-pudding on the board was seen ; 
 And oft they wished "poor George" might share the same. 
 And come again to tell where he had been. 
 Fighting the French in many a bloody scene. 
 Affection thus, and hope were kept alive. 
 Though dismal fears at times would intervene ; 
 Lest, after all, their son should not survive 
 The dangers of the war, or e'er at home arrive. 
 
 G
 
 78 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 X. 
 
 Now when their meal was finished, and the grace. 
 They ne'er forgot, was said in fervent strain ; 
 The girls began to straighten up the place ; 
 The mother to remove what might remain 
 Till needed next, at supper time again. 
 The father went the pig and cows to feed. 
 The boys to give the fowls the looked-for grain ; 
 While to the porch the grandam did proceed. 
 To teach the little boy his picture-book to read. 
 
 XI. 
 
 These useful labours all despatched, they came 
 With clean-washed hands, and faces fresh and fair: 
 A blue-checked apron on the frugal dame, 
 A clean white cap above her flaxen hair ; 
 And close beside her in his little chair 
 The youngest boy now sat, with serious look, 
 While one by one the rest in turn repair 
 To read a portion of that sacred book. 
 Whose truths refreshed the soul like Siloa's silent brook.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XII. 
 
 It chanced that day the portion which they read 
 Contained the story of the Froward Son, 
 Who, careless of the tears his father shed, 
 A mad career of thoughtless folly run. 
 In woe to end, although in smiles begun. 
 It then pourtrayed the misery supreme 
 He had to bear, when all his wealth was gone, 
 Till hunger fierce and wretchedness extreme 
 Made him the husks for swine luxurious food esteem. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 The story told, moreover, how at last 
 A better feeling came across his mind. 
 And how his sire, forgetful of the past, 
 Looked on the ragged wretch, and wept to find 
 His son returned to holier ways inclined. 
 The Cotter's heart beat strongly, for he felt 
 The moral force of that instruction kind. 
 Which made his soul with soft emotions melt. 
 And long to clasp his child ere at his feet he knelt.
 
 80 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 And now the time the Cotter always spent 
 Each Sabbath-day in visiting the sick. 
 Was drawing on, and so before he went 
 Away from home he reached his Sunday stick, 
 A sapling oak, gnarled, knotty, strong and thick. 
 But first he set the elder boys to learn 
 Two little tales which they themselves might pick 
 From some he named, that thus he might discern 
 Who best improved the time, until he should return. 
 
 XV. 
 
 The girls he knew would to their grandam read. 
 For thus they always spent the Sabbath-day, 
 And as the wife some slight repose might need. 
 She'd take a nap and dose an hour away. 
 While in her lap her youngest urchin lay. 
 The sultry noon a drowsy stillness made. 
 Nor cat, nor kitten seemed disposed for play. 
 The poor old dog lay panting in the shade. 
 Oft snapping at the flies that buzzed about his head.
 
 
 
 Meanwhile from home the Cottager pursued 
 His lonely walk, where aged hoary trees 
 Spread o'er his path that sylvan solitude 
 Which strikes the soul, in solemn scenes like these. 
 With conscious awe that God the heart e'er sees. 
 His way led onwards through a mossy dell, 
 At all times sheltered from the wintry breeze. 
 Where, as he passed, a burst of sunlight fell 
 And silvered o'er afresh The Lovers' Haunted Well.
 
 82 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 It was a spot well chosen to uphold 
 The name it bore, by long tradition known ; 
 For massy oaks, a thousand winters old, 
 In forms fantastic and uncouth had grown 
 From jutting rocks or heaps of ragged stone. 
 Deep down the glen a rocky basin lay, 
 Where always bright the crystal waters shone ; 
 But ne'er ran o'er and could not get away 
 Altho' the weeping fount kept dripping night and day. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 But that which filled and fixed the anxious sight 
 With secret awe and dark mysterious dread, — 
 A fair young girl of alabaster white 
 Kneeled by the Well and o'er it hung her head 
 As if its depths contained her lover dead. 
 Her small white hands she clasped in bitter woe. 
 From her fair face, hope's last faint beam had fled ; 
 While all the rigid features served to show 
 How wildly she deplored the youth who lay below.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 83 
 
 XIX. 
 
 The tale was old, and all the country knew 
 How, here, two lovers met, in days of yore : 
 In secret nursed the maiden's passion grew. 
 For she was rich, and he she loved seemed poor ; 
 And her proud sire betrothed her long before 
 To one whose birth was equal to her own : 
 But when was love so blind as to implore 
 That other eyes should make the virtues known. 
 He first discerns himself, and thinks he sees alone ? 
 
 XX. 
 
 The high-born youth parental care designed, 
 A few months hence, that lady fair should wed. 
 In stranger's garb her worth resolved to find, 
 Lest he perchance, by erring custom led. 
 Might take a mate unsuited to his bed : 
 Her father's pledge the maiden never knew. 
 Else had she feared her own free path to tread ; 
 Unwarned she ran where love's first impulse drew. 
 And in her child-like heart a wondrous passion grew.
 
 84 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 And through these woods the youthful lovers strayed, 
 Inhaling bliss young lovers only know ; 
 When life shines fair in early charms arrayed, 
 Without the shadow of approaching woe, 
 Its chilling gloom across our path to throw. 
 And day by day they sought this shady dell. 
 For here their passion first began to grow ; 
 With joy unveiled she loved to hear him tell 
 The tale that won her heart, beside the Haunted Well. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 But bliss like theirs was not designed to last ; 
 A plant so fair was sure to fade away ; 
 That brilliant sky would soon be overcast. 
 And clouds and storms defile the lovely day : 
 For earthly joys, alas ! how short their stay. 
 There, as they sat, with purest raptures filled. 
 The bolt was shot, the lover bleeding lay : 
 The maiden's heart with icy horror thrilled. 
 Transfixed beside the form her angry sire had killed.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 85 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 She never spoke, but, kneeling by the Well 
 In which her lover's bleeding corse was thrown. 
 Seemed rooted there, as if some sudden spell 
 Congealed her frame to cold unmelting stone. 
 Where life or heat would never more be known. 
 In angry tones her father bade her rise ; 
 She heard him not ; her gentle soul had flown 
 To join her love, where more auspicious skies 
 Would shine upon their bliss, and love immortalise. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 With deep regret and unavailing tears 
 The father learned how his rash hand had slain 
 The very man that he had hoped for years 
 His daughter's hand, but not her heart, might gain, 
 For that he deemed was labour spent in vain. 
 But now his child, his only child, was dead. 
 And on his soul foul murder's bloody stain, 
 Bv vengeful conscience filled with constant dread, 
 And hopeless in his grief, to these old woods he fled.
 
 86 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Beneath that tree, and in yon little cave 
 He made his home — a cheerless dreary place ; 
 There would he sit and look upon the wave. 
 His own dark story in its depths to trace. 
 While tears on tears were coursing down his face. 
 Years roll'd away, and still within his cell 
 That old man mourned his sufferino-s and disgrace : 
 The friends who came, he sought not to repel. 
 But never from his lips a single sentence fell. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 At length the statue of his child was brought 
 To soothe the torture of his wounded breast ; 
 In foreign lands the costly stone was wrought 
 With such deep skill, the image seemed possest 
 Of life itself, in marble whiteness drest. 
 He gazed — he shook — his haggard eye grew wild. 
 Unearthly fears his trembling soul opprest : 
 He looked again, and on the statue smiled. 
 Then sunk, and dying cried, '* I come, I come, my child !"
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 87 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 Since then, 'tis said, their spirits walk this glen 
 Once every year, the day the lover died ; 
 They neither court, nor shun the gaze of men. 
 But hand in hand with pensive steps they glide 
 Till by the brink they all stand side by side. 
 Then o'er the spot just where the lover fell, 
 Still cursed and bare with no green grass supplied. 
 Awhile they sit, as if they seemed to tell 
 Why first the place was called "The Lover's Haunted 
 Well." 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 This ancient tale, to rustic minds endeared, 
 The Cotter knew, but doubted, where it said 
 How once a-year their spirits still appeared. 
 Like forms of earth in thin white robes arrayed. 
 To tread with pensive steps this quiet glade: 
 'Twas his belief their gentle souls had flown 
 To dwell in joys which no rude storms invade ; 
 And that the sire, by long repentance shown, 
 Had made his peace with God, and lived before his throne.
 
 88 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 But yet he knew how fancy loves to fill 
 With superstitious sights old spots like these ; 
 Where all around was so serene and still, 
 That leaves just parting from their parent trees 
 Were heard to sigh and whisper to the breeze : 
 Where flickering lights are grouped with heavy shades, 
 Then lost again before the gazer sees. 
 How sudden sun-bursts shoot through narrow glades. 
 And light some moss-clad tree which in a moment fades. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 There wreaths of mist, in dreamy twilight seen, 
 Are sleeping still, or waving to and fro. 
 Now creeping up amid the branches green. 
 Or squatting close along the ground below. 
 And now like forms of living things they go : 
 No wonder, minds, by previous fears opprest. 
 In these dim scenes should feel their terrors grow. 
 Till waving mists should seem of life possest, 
 And branches, wild, uncouth, in ghastly forms be dressed.
 
 .CS«ea 
 
 
 ^cs^'^ 
 
 With some such thoughts the Cotter left the wood. 
 Half grieved to quit its cool delightful shade, 
 And came where on its skirts a cottage stood, 
 Well thatched with straw, of stud and plaster made, 
 Time-worn in parts, but not at all decayed. 
 Before the gate there ran a little brook. 
 O'er which a plank of rough-hewn wood was laid ; 
 Beneath the porch, with pleased and smiling look. 
 An old man sat to hear God's true and holy book.
 
 90 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 That holy book his lovely grandchild read, — 
 A gentle girl some twenty summers old ; 
 Her native curls hung clustering round her head, 
 Or down her neck the auburn tresses roll'd. 
 And in the sunshine glowed like burnished gold. 
 Her deep blue eyes had just the violet's shade 
 Lit up with sense, by modesty controlled. 
 Where filial love and fond affection made 
 A mingled charm more sweet than violets e'er displayed. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 Close by the pales, the Cottager remained. 
 To chat a moment with that fine old man. 
 Whose gathering age no lack of health sustained. 
 Although his days beyond the usual span 
 Of human life full twenty summers ran. 
 But few events his simple history knew. 
 For in that cottage first his life began ; 
 From youth through manhood in its walls he grew, 
 Till time above his brow a snowy mantle threw.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 91 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 The few slight changes in his quiet life 
 Seemed things of course, and scarce disturbed his rest ; 
 The first of these, was when he took a wife. 
 Of frugal ways and some few pounds possest ; 
 With manners kind and rustic beauty blest. 
 Twice thirty years as man and wife they dwelt, 
 With no rude jars their quiet to molest ; 
 And when at last beside her grave he knelt, 
 He shed not many tears, though truly grieved he felt. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 One child they had — a fearless daring boy. 
 Who scorned the simple life his parents led ; 
 More stirring scenes to him afforded joy. 
 Where tempting hopes before his mind were spread 
 In golden hues, by magic fancy bred. 
 And so from home although with tears he went. 
 In crowded streets the path of life to tread ; 
 More happy far could he have been content 
 To stay and end his course where his young days were 
 spent.
 
 92 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Time brought him back, a strangely altered man, 
 His health exhausted, prematurely old ; 
 The race of life too swiftly had he ran, 
 The strife with time too feeble to uphold, 
 He reached the goal, ere half his days were told. 
 Sick, sad, subdued, and weary of the strife. 
 His prospects blighted, and his heart grown cold, 
 He just returned, at home to end his life. 
 And left an infant girl, sole relict of his wife. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 That infant girl to womanhood was grown, 
 The one sole comfort of that old man's breast ; 
 While she perchance had feelings all her own. 
 In secret nursed and ne'er in words exprest. 
 Although her cheeks some tender things confest. 
 Thus when the Cotter asked them both to tea. 
 More knowing men than they were, might have guessed 
 That those warm blushes on her cheeks must be 
 Excited by a cause, more deep than they could see.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 93 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 For neither knew, what she had long time known, 
 How George, the Cotter's son, had sought her hand, — 
 That her refusal of his suit alone 
 Had forced the youth to seek a foreign strand. 
 And carry arras in an unfriendly land. 
 How many times she wished that he would come! 
 And schemes of future bliss she often planned : 
 Why should he now in distant countries roam, 
 When he might live with her so happily at home ? 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 Then came the fear that other eyes might charm, 
 And wake the flame she smothered in his breast ; 
 At other times her heart would take alarm. 
 And ghastly wounds or bloody death suggest. 
 Or else in prison chained by want oppressed. 
 And thus her thoughts kept wandering to and fro. 
 And broken visions oft disturbed her rest ; 
 But midst her fears hope still kept whispering low, 
 " He surely will come back ; — why did you let him go ?" 
 
 H
 
 94 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XL. 
 
 So when her grandsire asked her " should they go ?" 
 Her sparkhng eyes shot forth a brilhant ray, 
 As if they said, " How could you answer, no ? 
 'Twill be so pleasant through the wood to stray. 
 And hear the birds while sauntering on the way," 
 'Twas soon agreed ; for o'er the old man's heart 
 Her lightest wishes ruled with sovereign sway : 
 " Be sure," the Cotter said, "in time to start." 
 " We will," the old man cried, "and soon at night depart." 
 
 XLI. 
 
 The Cotter then pursued his lonely walk. 
 From place to place, beneath the burning sun ; 
 Sometimes he stopped at lonely huts to talk 
 Of Jesus Christ, God's everlasting Son, 
 And all the mighty wonders He had done. 
 He bade the mourner view his smiling face. 
 Or warned the hardened sinner how to shun 
 The dreadful torments of that awful place, 
 Where hope will never smile on those who scorned his grace.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 95 
 
 XLir, 
 
 'Twas not in vain he laboured thus to save 
 Untutored souls from ignorance and woe ; 
 For oft through him though sinking to the grave. 
 Repenting tears from stony eyes would flow. 
 And dying men their Saviour learned to know : 
 How oft the mind, by doubt and fear opprest, 
 Through his instructions felt a sacred glow 
 Of holy sunshine warming through the breast. 
 Or full of faith and joy had gone to endless rest. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 Now from the road the Cotter turned aside, 
 And crossed a moor with gorse and bracken gay ; 
 A dreary waste extending far and wide. 
 To where some colliers' huts were raised of clay, 
 In one of which a dying woman lay. 
 The little chamber where she kept her bed. 
 With age and want of care was giving way. 
 For long wide rents along the walls had spread. 
 And rafters cracked in two, hung threatening o'er her head.
 
 96 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 The room was small, and scarce contained a thing 
 Besides the bed, which creaked with crazy age ; 
 Some tattered garments hung across a string, 
 All patched and rent, as if their utmost stage 
 Of servitude was merely to presage 
 Their owner's end, which now was drawing nigh. 
 With little aid her sufferings to assuage. 
 Save what her poorer neighbours might supply 
 From their exhausted stores, until the wretch should die. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 And die ere long the Cotter saw she must. 
 For Death was there, and battling for his prey ; 
 Her wasted form, so near akin to dust. 
 That one slight shock the feeble pulse would stay. 
 And close the taper's intermittent ray. 
 Her face appeared a sharp and bony rim, 
 Her lips were thin and tinged with bluish grey ; 
 The hollow eye with gathering films was dim. 
 And mortal coldness now had paralysed each limb.
 
 And this was she who, five short years before. 
 In pride of youth was called " The Village Belle;" 
 Her cottage dress with simple taste she wore, 
 Put neatly on,, and it became her well, 
 As many a youth with beating heart could tell. 
 The country lads contended who should gain 
 Sweet Mary's smile, and in her grace excel ; 
 But though they ne'er were treated with disdain. 
 Not one, among them all, her favour could obtain.
 
 98 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 Could she not love, that thus she turned aside 
 Those pretty eyes, so soft and yet so bright ? — 
 How could it be ?— they knew it was not pride. 
 For Mary was not proud, though well she might 
 Be lifted up, if pride could e'er be right. 
 How was it then ? — had she her heart bestowed 
 Away from home, on one a stranger quite ? 
 Her rosy cheeks with mantling blushes glowed ; — 
 She loves ! — but whom ? they asked ; — the coming 
 summer showed. 
 
 XLiir. 
 
 A gay young spark lived in the neighbouring town 
 Where Mary went, each weekly market day ; 
 Her small straw hat, and dress of russet brown. 
 First caused the youth some civil things to say. 
 And by and by to meet her on the way. 
 He talked of love, of faithful, lasting love, 
 And never sought to turn her steps astray, 
 Till Mary's heart at length began to move. 
 And yielding to his wish, her fate with his she wove.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 99 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 Their honeymoon was spent without a cloud ; 
 But three months o'er, a trivial change was seen. 
 His voice was heard at intervals too loud. 
 And Mary sometimes wondered where he 'd been. 
 When hours beyond his time would intervene. 
 " Think him to blame ! Oh, no ! she knew he 'd come ; 
 'Twas business kept him, something unforeseen ; 
 Thank God, her Henry did not wish to roam. 
 His heart was not at ease when absent from his home." 
 
 L. 
 
 Was this the case ? — was Henry still so fond 
 Of her and home, that he could now forego 
 Those jovial scenes, which led him far beyond 
 Where Prudence stood, and threatening future woe ? 
 To all, his fond excuses thundered " No !" 
 Alas ! for him, alas ! for his young bride. 
 The poisoned cup was working, sure, though slow : 
 If sought, when absent from his Mary's side. 
 Some festive scene alone his wavering heart supplied.
 
 100 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 LI. 
 
 But this poor Mary knew not ; she believed 
 Her husband all fond woman's wish might find ; 
 Had she then known, how would her heart have grieved, 
 That one so generous, one so good and kind. 
 For pleasure's cup should thus debase his mind! 
 And so at home she cheered her lonely breast 
 With pleasing hopes, to all the future blind ; 
 Strong in his love, she thought she should be blest, 
 When nestling to her heart, her babe would sweetly rest. 
 
 Lir. 
 
 The babe was born — a healthy, lovely child ; — 
 Was ever mother half so full of joy ? 
 Then Henry came, and took the babe, and smiled. 
 And called his wife a treasure, and his boy 
 The very thing he wanted, to employ 
 His vacant time, and please him day by day ; 
 'Twould be so sweet to play with such a toy. 
 To watch the mind first shed its dawning ray, 
 Till he could run, and speak, and merry gambols play.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 101 
 
 LIII. 
 
 What fickle stuff poor human nature is ! 
 One little week from this had scarcely fled. 
 Ere Henry strayed to scenes of sensual bliss, 
 And, wild with drink, to further folly led. 
 Was false the first time to his Mary's bed : 
 But she, poor thing! still dreaming she was blest 
 With richer joys, her blooming hopes she fed ; 
 The little nurseling to her heart she prest 
 With all a mother's joy, to give the babe her breast. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 Her dream of bliss for months was yet prolonged ; 
 For all her husband told her she believed ; 
 And when he said increasing; business thronged 
 So fast upon him, that, however grieved 
 His heart might be, he could not get relieved : 
 The trusting wife, by fond affection swayed. 
 Without a doubt the lying tale received. 
 Until his state by fatal chance displayed. 
 To her affrighted mind the dreadful truth betrayed.
 
 102 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 LV. 
 
 Induced by one who called herself a friend, 
 In Henry's absence to behold a play. 
 She went, but waited not to see the end. 
 For strange misgivings on her spirit lay. 
 Lest this was wrong — her husband far away : 
 In hurrying home she passed a narrow street, 
 Where one faint lamp diffused a sickly ray 
 Athwart the darkness, where she chanced to meet 
 Her husband reeling past with drunken staggering feet. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 Aghast she stood, o'erwhelmed with sudden woe. 
 Her trembling limbs fast rooted to the ground ; 
 Her brain felt scorched, — no cooling tears would flow, 
 And o'er her eyes, a darkness most profound 
 With horrors vaguely filled seemed floating round. 
 How she reached home was not distinctly said. 
 But months on months, in dark delirium bound. 
 She lay unconscious of the gloom which spread, 
 In still increasing depth, round her devoted head ;
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH, 103 
 
 I.VII. 
 
 And when she waked to consciousness once more, 
 'Twas but to find her darkest fears too true ; 
 Her husband, now more reckless than before, 
 His vicious course determined to pursue. 
 Regardless of the ills that must accrue. 
 For days and weeks he kept himself away, 
 And left his wife in bitterness to rue 
 That this low vice her husband's heart should sway, 
 And blight their home of joy with ruinous decay. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 Increasing still with each renewed excess. 
 The love of drink grew stronger day by day ; 
 What little shame he sometime might possess, 
 This fatal passion had removed away. 
 And all his better feelings prostrate lay: 
 His pride itself, which one time led him on 
 In dress to shine the gayest of the gay. 
 Even that last doubtful sentinel was gone. 
 And his dark mind depraved, of self respect had none.
 
 104 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 Then ^ant approached, just like an armed man. 
 And tore the garments from his altered frame ; 
 The cheek once healthy, now grew pale and wan,- 
 The dull sunk eye had lost its former flame. 
 And sneers and cold contempt sat on his name : 
 Cast off by those who taught him first to sin. 
 The first to tempt him and the first to blame ; — 
 He mixed with wretches who rejoiced to win, 
 Even at the price of life, their worshipped idol. Gin. 
 
 LX. 
 
 His poor meek wife in solitude remained, 
 Still toiling on to earn the scanty bread. 
 Which scarce her own and baby's life sustained, 
 To rags reduced, and oft by hunger led 
 To look with gloomy pleasure on the dead : 
 Yet all the time her lips were never known 
 To blame the man whose fatal folly bred 
 Disease and want, and anguish, now upgrown 
 To such a fatal height, that hope was overthrown.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 105 
 
 LXI. 
 
 Years gloomed along, each darker than the last. 
 More sad, more cheerless as they rolled away ; 
 More dark, because the brightness of the past 
 Still shed at times a faint and flickering ray. 
 Like broken sunlight o'er a stormy day. 
 If on her face a sickly smile was seen. 
 It passed off soon, as if afraid to stay ; 
 Rising perchance from thoughts of what had been 
 The visions of her mind, in other days serene. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 If Henry, now a ragged meagre wretch, 
 To where she lived at some odd times returned, 
 'Twas not to cheer her, but he came to fetch 
 Some household thing his feeble wife had earned, 
 To pawn for drink, for which he ever yearned. 
 Thus one by one the chairs and tables went, — 
 Pans, pots and cups were into money turned ; 
 The very garments from her back he rent. 
 Regardless of her tears, and all for gin was spent. 
 
 I
 
 106 THE COITAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 At length, grown sick, and pinched for want of food, 
 She lay unable from her bed to rise ; 
 Her little boy, at all times kind and good, 
 Her only friend, to soothe or sympathise, 
 Stood close beside her couch with weeping eyes. 
 The brutal husband to her chamber came 
 And seized her only blanket, as a prize : 
 Then laughed, while she, with woman's modest shame 
 Strove hard to hide her poor emaciated frame. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 " Oh father, father !" cried the weeping child, 
 " Tear not the blanket from poor mother's bed ; 
 What will she do, when wintry winds blow wild, 
 Sick as she is, and starved for want of bread?" 
 " What do I care," the frantic villain said : 
 " I must have drink, and this more gin will buy ; 
 Let go your hold, or I will strike you dead. 
 And sell you both ! — why don't your mother die ? — 
 She'll need no blankets then — they want none in the sky."
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 107 
 
 LXV. 
 
 With these unfeeling taunts he rudely tore 
 The scanty covering from the struggling boy, 
 Who fell exhausted on the rugged floor, 
 Bereft of sense, unable to annoy 
 With childish strife, his father's fiendish joy. 
 Before he rose that father strode away. 
 As if he wished his offspring to destroy : 
 The wretched wife in speechless anguish lay, 
 Half tempted to believe 'twas quite in vain to pray. 
 
 LXVI. 
 
 From that dark hour poor Mary's fate was sealed, 
 By want, and woe, and care so long opprest ; 
 Beneath the shock her feeble spirits reeled, 
 Long lingering hope deserted her sad breast : 
 The grave — the grave — her only place of rest I 
 One tie remained, a strong and tender tie, — 
 Her poor dear child must sink by want opprest. 
 No friendly neighbour could her place supply : 
 Were he but safe, how soon, how gladly would she die !
 
 108 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 LXVII. 
 
 " Fear not for him," the Cottager rephed, 
 " My boys shall take him to their little bed ; 
 Whate'er he needs I will myself provide, 
 And bring him up till he can earn his bread ; 
 By honest toil to humble plenty led. 
 Fear not for him, but let your mind repose 
 On Christ alone, who once for sinners bled. 
 And now eternal happiness bestows 
 On all who trust in Him, since from the grave he rose." 
 
 L XVIII. 
 
 Whilst thus, in tones of homely kindness full, 
 The good man tried to soothe away her fears, 
 A gentle calm her spirit seemed to lull. 
 Half mix'd with doubt, afraid to trust her ears : 
 And then o'erjoyed she shed a flood of tears. 
 " Oh God, my God ! I will be thine," she cried ; 
 " This pays me back the griefs of many years ; 
 My child, my child ! thy wants shall be supplied ; 
 I die contented now," — and saying this, she died.
 
 CANTO IV.
 
 
 A RURAL arbour in the garden stood. 
 Of beech-wood formed, with scented creepers Hned 
 And in the midst a grotesque piece of wood. 
 With sundry stumps of trees in ragged rind. 
 To serve as chairs, and table, each designed. 
 Right over head the branches formed a roof 
 Of curious work, so close together twined. 
 That human skill could ne'er with web and woof 
 Compose so fine a mesh, by nature waterproof.
 
 112 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 II. 
 
 The back and sides were walled with living green. 
 Where shades harmonious mingling met the view ; 
 And here and there moss-roses might be seen. 
 With jasmine or clematis peeping through 
 The verdant wall, of variegated hue. 
 A bright laburnum near the entrance stood. 
 Its yellow ringlets waving to and fro : 
 And round about a thick impervious wood. 
 Where clamps of flowers adorned the quiet neighbourhood. 
 
 III. 
 
 For many a year the Cottager had tried 
 To add new beauties to this favourite spot ; 
 The choicest flowers he trained against its side. 
 Each straggling branch he pruned or taught to knot 
 Its twisting fibres where he might allot. 
 Shrub, flower, and tree, for balm and beauty known. 
 Were all united in this rural-grot: 
 By fostering care to full perfection grown, 
 That leafy arbour now in matchless beauty shone.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 113 
 
 IV. 
 
 When sultry suns shot down their fervid beams, 
 Without a cloud the gaping earth to screen. 
 And meadowy banks that sloped by sparkling streams 
 Were parched and brown without a speck of green, 
 And drooping leaves on every tree were seen: — 
 The shady arbour still expelled the heat. 
 No wandering ray e'er came the boughs between, 
 Kept by the Cotter always trimmed and neat. 
 On Sabbath days they oft enjoyed their cool retreat. 
 
 There, by his wife, the place he always chose. 
 The Cotter sat, while she dispensed the tea ; 
 Poor George's sweetheart, blushing like a rose. 
 Took up the child and placed it on her knee, 
 O'erjoyed and glad with George's friends to be. 
 The two young girls about the old man hung. 
 And stroked his hair or chatted merrily ; 
 While both the boys around the stranger clung — 
 Poor Mary's orphan-child — to feel his loss too young.
 
 114 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 VI. 
 
 The massy loaf of hearth-baked wheaten bread. 
 In thick substantial slices wore away, 
 With fresh-made butter plentifully spread ; 
 While smoking; cakes about the table lav 
 With jam or jelly lined, to grace the day. 
 The cooling cress their garden stream supplied. 
 Or lettuce young, spread out in green array : 
 Thick yellow cream, her humble dairy's pride, 
 T' enrich their fragrant tea, did the good dame provide. 
 
 VII. 
 
 While round the board the cheerful cups were sent. 
 They chatted gravely as became their years : 
 The old man spoke of some far-gone event. 
 The Cotter's wife expressed her present fears 
 About her son, and shed "some natural tears." 
 The boys and girls were busy with their cakes. 
 More pleased to eat, than to regale their ears 
 With tales antique, which fitful memory wakes. 
 While deep lethargic age with by-gone fancies quakes.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 115 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Nor, while the youngsters thus their food enjoyed, 
 Did those in years this pleasing task neglect ; 
 For one and all were seriously employed 
 With bread or cake, as fancy might direct, 
 Or appetite suggest less circumspect. 
 Yet one was there, more joyous than the rest, 
 Who cake and tea did equally neglect : 
 And why ? — Such pleasant feelings filled her breast, 
 For in her gentle heart young Love had made his nest. 
 
 IX. 
 
 And what was food, or what was tea to her ? — 
 Her own sweet fancies fed and filled her mind ; 
 What bright deductions might not hope infer? 
 Since all around her looked so good and kind. 
 While no one guessed what secret ties might bind. 
 If George were here, she thought, but did not say, 
 What lasting joys they might together find ? 
 " Let him return ; I'll try to make him stay : 
 It was a foolish act, to let him go away."
 
 116 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 X. 
 
 " Come Kate, my girl," the Cottager exclaimed, 
 " Your tea is cold — set down that prating boy : 
 Here, take this cake, which after George is named ; 
 Nay, never blush, you need not now look coy; — 
 Would he were here to mingle in our joy !" 
 " I wish he were," half trembled on her lip. 
 But, quite confused, she snatched the child's new toy, 
 A penny drum, from which she tried to sip ; 
 Then finding her mistake, let cup and saucer slip. 
 
 XI. 
 
 The Cotter's thoughts were otherwise engaged. 
 Or he had seen what Kate would fain conceal : 
 Not so his wife, whose watchful mind presaged 
 That her young heart about their son must feel 
 More than her lips were likely to reveal. 
 Alarmed at first, she scanned the maiden o'er. 
 Whose mild blue eyes replied to her appeal ; 
 Their mutual looks a hidden meaning bore. 
 Well understood by both, both smiled, but nothing more.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 117 
 
 XII. 
 
 " Shall I," said Kate, " the tea-things take away?" 
 The mother smiled, and nodding gave consent, 
 Rejoiced to see her feelings thus display 
 Their proper course, and as the maiden went. 
 She thought that George with Kate would be content. 
 Then nursing up her own fond thoughts, she smiled 
 Abstracted, pondering o'er the glad event ; 
 Until her husband rose, to please the child, 
 And let him crop a flower, that grew too large and wild. 
 
 XIII. 
 
 When Kate returned, the Cottager proposed. 
 That one and all should join to sing a Psalm; 
 Since God their Father had to each disclosed 
 Such proofs of love, that well they might embalm 
 His name in praise, this summer-evening calm. 
 No voice dissentient murmured as he rose 
 And towered above them, like a goodly palm : 
 With native taste they sang the psalm he chose. 
 Melodious as it broke the Sabbath's deep repose. 
 
 K
 
 118 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 The pleasant anthem rising o'er the trees, 
 And melting sweetly in the deep-blue sky : 
 Was faintly answered by the trembling breeze 
 And warbling brook, which gently wandering by. 
 Sung to the banks whose murmuring leaves reply. 
 The distant woods grew vocal with their song. 
 Where long green glades 'twixt old tall trees did lie. 
 Like hoary aisles in some cathedral strong, 
 Still making more sublime the sounds their depths prolong. 
 
 XV. 
 
 " Come now, my boys," the Cotter said, " we'll hear 
 *' The little tales that you have learned to-day ; 
 Here, James, stand up and let your voice be clear, — 
 Mind well your stops, and take great care to say 
 In proper tones, each sentence, grave or gay." 
 The youngster's cheeks a transient blush o'erspread. 
 And then he coughed to clear his fears away ; 
 More calm at length he lifted up his head. 
 And in a deep low voice, what follows here, he said.
 
 
 " The mournful breeze sighs sad through Codnor Hall, 
 Where nettles wild in broken casements grow ; 
 Through lono; wide cracks the scattered moonbeams fall, 
 And rustling weeds wave idly to and fro 
 O'er broken floors and gaping vaults below. 
 On roofless walls portentous Ruin scowls ; 
 A dreary change the voiceless chambers show : 
 For there the fox through each apartment prowls. 
 Disturbing as he creeps the dreams of sleeping owls.
 
 120 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XVII. 
 
 ** White hoary moss is coated on the wall ; 
 Dark ivy waves in Beauty's broken bower ; 
 Disjointed stones from sinking arches fall ; 
 The wide hall chimney, open to the shower, 
 More dreary looks than desolated tower. 
 Mid long dank weeds the aged thistle grows, 
 Where once the ' Lady's Garden' used to flower 
 Where still is seen a weak and sickly rose. 
 That o'er the ruined waste a faded beauty throws. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 " Uncounted leaves fill up the choaking moat. 
 Where fallen beams and broken columns lie ; 
 With scattered fragments of a rotten boat. 
 Confusedly mixed chaotic to the eye, — 
 Part standing quite erect, but more awry. 
 The massy gates like skeletons appear. 
 Whose crumbling dust their outward looks belie 
 While gate-ways dark sepulchral terrors wear. 
 And all about the place is silent, sad, and drear.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH, 121 
 
 XIX. 
 
 "How changed the scene, since first Lord Thomas 
 
 brought 
 His youthful bride to grace his father's halls ! 
 When bannered knights and bright-eyed ladies sought 
 The festive joys that sparkled in these walls. 
 In ceaseless rounds of masquerades and balls. 
 The new-born days successive pleasures bring ; 
 To join the chase the shrilly bugle calls. 
 Or minstrels gay their merry roundels sing, 
 And loud obstreperous mirth makes roof and rafters ring. 
 
 XX. 
 
 " Month rolled on month, and years on years were piled. 
 Without abatement of that tide of joy : 
 Around their path the rosy moments smiled ; 
 No cloud arose their sunshine to destroy. 
 Or accident befell, that might annoy. 
 Wealth, honour, state and pleasure at command, 
 A thousand menials toiled in his employ : 
 O'er hill and dale his wide domains expand, 
 'Twould take a summer's day, to ride across his land.
 
 122 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 " What ails Lord Thomas ? Gloomy, dark, severe ; 
 By fits he starts or hui-ries up and down ; 
 Now stops to gaze, his wild eyes full of fear. 
 Then starting forth, he darts an angry frown. 
 Or laughs in scorn his inward fears to drown. 
 What ails Lord Thomas ? — once so bly the and gay. 
 So rich and great, so full of fair renown? 
 Alas ! for him the passion rose for play : 
 And now the fatal dice have thrown his lands away. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 " Where hides he now ? Rude strangers claim his Hall; 
 His wife hath sickened like a blighted flower ; 
 Those summer-friends unmoved behold his fall, 
 Who hung about him in his day of power : 
 And now assist his substance to devour. 
 Where hides he now ? Behold yon roofless shed, 
 To storms exposed, and soaking with the shower : 
 There may you see the great Lord Thomas dead. 
 Whose famished looks declare, he died for want of bread."*
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 123 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 When thus the boy his gloomy tale had done. 
 And stood in doubt, half-pleased and half-ashamed ; 
 The Cotter's wife put forth her younger son. 
 But hoped his story might be better framed 
 Than James's tale, which he had rightly named. 
 The timid boy looked mildly in her face, 
 And saw the smile his mute expression claimed ; 
 Assured at once, he sunk in her embrace. 
 Then blushing to the brow, he took his brother's place. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 " Once on a time there lived a little boy,^ 
 So mild and good, he never learned to frown ; 
 His gentle heart was always full of joy. 
 And full of love ; and love was like a crown 
 Of glory round his brow, from God sent down. 
 Whoever saw him, loved him, for his eyes 
 Were so confiding, they were sure to drown 
 All cold reserve in gladness and surprise. 
 That one was found on earth, so like them in the skies.
 
 124 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 " The little birds all knew him, and would hop 
 About his path, and peep into his face ; 
 And one sweet robin on the rail would stop 
 Till he came up, and shewed of fear no trace, 
 But followed him about from place to place. 
 The sheep and cows seemed pleased to see him go. 
 And rabbits wild about his feet would race ; 
 The very fish by instinct seemed to know 
 The goodness of this boy, and signs of joy would show. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 " It chanced one day, as down a lane he passed, 
 In converse sweet with butterflies and flowers ; 
 He found a lamb by envious thorns held fast. 
 Despite its piteous cries for many hours : 
 Its woolly coat all wet with driving showers. 
 ' My pretty lamb, I'll set you free,' he cried. 
 And then to set it free he strained his powers ; 
 ' Have patience, dear — how fast the thorns are tied 
 Be gentle, — gentle now — or you will tear your side.'
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 125 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 " That little lamb and he at once were friends, 
 And where he went, his woolly friend would go : 
 No matter who beside the lamb attends, 
 It never leaves him, let who will say no, 
 But clings about his legs its love to show. 
 Bright sunny days together they would pass. 
 Now romping, full of play, now wandering slow ; 
 And when fatigued, young thoughtless things, alas ! 
 They both would fall asleep together on the grass. 
 
 xxvni. 
 
 " And thus they lived for many, many days. 
 Until at last the child was taken ill ; 
 His eyes grew dull — his head he could not raise. 
 But on his mother's knee lay sad and still : 
 And sometimes burned like fire, and then grew chill. 
 They laid him down within his little bed. 
 And brought the Leech to try his healing skill ; 
 But fast and fast the gathering fever spread. 
 And soon his speech grew wild with lightness in his head.
 
 126 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 " And all the time that little boy was ill. 
 The patient lamb beneath his window lay ; 
 It rained — it blew — but there the lamb lay still. 
 The live-long night, though cold, and all the day. 
 And never once was seen to go away. 
 They brought him milk — they brought him dainty bread, 
 Twas all in vain ; the food untouched might stay : 
 But when they came he reared his languid head. 
 And moaned as if to ask ' Is my young master dead?' 
 
 XXX. 
 
 " At length the fever left him, and the child 
 Seemed just awakened from a troubled sleep ; 
 His mild blue eyes he opened, and he smiled 
 So sweetly on them, with a love so deep. 
 That all who saw him could not choose but weep. 
 ' Where is my lamb, my pretty lamb,' he cried ; 
 ' I thought I heard him near the window creep ; 
 Have I been ill ? What's this upon my side ? 
 Dear mother, bring my lamb!' — ' He 's coming,' she replied.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 127 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 " And oh ! the joy those two young things displayed, 
 Once more to be together ; — twas a sight 
 Where innocence, and love, and joy pourtrayed 
 What man should be, were his affections right ; 
 And what he may be by the Saviour's might. 
 Thrice holy Lamb ! how great thy love must be. 
 To bleed for those who did thy goodness slight ; 
 And since for man thou diedst upon the tree. 
 Oh ! teach my trusting heart to cleave and cling to thee." 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 " Thank God!" said Kate, her eyes suffused with tears, 
 " The child, the lamb are both preserved alive ! 
 While they were ill, I had so many fears 
 Lest, after all, they neither should survive. 
 To show the world how hearts in love can thrive." 
 " Why, Kate, my girl !" her aged grandsire said, 
 "To fall in love, I think thou 'It soon contrive 
 Thou speak'st so warm." — Kate blushing hung her head. 
 Half smiling to herself, but not a word she said.
 
 128 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 " Now for a walk," the Cottager exclaimed. — 
 " A walk, a walk !" his laughing girls replied ; 
 The cheerful wife no vain excuses framed. 
 But dressed herself, while Kate each bonnet tied, 
 And took the youngsters frisking by her side. 
 Then down the lane, the Cotter and his guest 
 Went sauntering first, — the poor old dog their guide : 
 The three young boys about their mother prest. 
 And Mary's orphan-child came thronging with the rest. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 The clear round sun was sinking down the sky. 
 And leafy trees extensive shadows threw; 
 Majestic clouds like gorgeous drapery 
 Stretched far away in heaven's imperial blue, 
 Till, lost in air, they melted from the view. 
 Above the woods uprose a distant spire. 
 Where round and round the glossy rooks still flew 
 The glittering vane glowed like a bird of fire, 
 Uprising towards the sky to teach us to aspire.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 129 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 O'er grassy vales with cot and orchard strowed. 
 Where sheep and cows through clover-pastures stray ; 
 The distant hills with golden sunshine glowed. 
 While clear smooth streams like molten silver lay, 
 'Twixt meadow-lands enriched with cocks of hay. 
 And all around was so serene and still 
 That not a leaf was quivering on the spray : 
 The gurgling stream that turns the clacking mill, 
 Infected by the heat, rolled lazy down the hill, 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 Then faintly brawling underneath the trees 
 It here and there caught glimpses of the sky ; 
 And made low answer to the murmuring bees 
 Which to and fro laboriously did fly. 
 Still rifling sweet-lipped flowers that grew hard by. 
 Far in the distance sheep-bells tinkled clear. 
 And now and then was heard the lapwing's cry : 
 While many a sound came softened on the ear 
 From song of woodland bird, and low of brindled steer, 
 
 L.
 
 130 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 Through scenes like these they sauntered slowly on. 
 From field to field, oft stopping as they went. 
 Some curious herb or lofty tree to con. 
 While now and then each gladsome heart would vent 
 Wild bursts of joy, or dying flower lament. 
 Now here, now there, the happy children sped, 
 And each new joy a new excitement lent ; 
 Now o'er the path large heaps of flowers they spread. 
 And then in mimic fear across the fields they fled. 
 
 «( 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 'Come, boys," said Kate, "beyond this hill there stands 
 A fine old tree that's called ' The Lover's Oak ;' " 
 Up sprung the lads, and seized her glowing hands. 
 And like young deer across the field they broke. 
 Or youthful steeds that never felt the yoke. 
 They gained the top, they scampered down the side. 
 To try their speed each other did provoke ; 
 On, on each went with still increasing stride. 
 And scarcely could they stop, when o'er the valley wide.
 
 " This tree," said Kate — but ere she more could say, 
 Her features changed, — her rosy cheeks grew pale. 
 Her whole regard was fixed on one who lay 
 Beneath the tree to rest his body frail, 
 Where grief or sickness told a heavy tale. 
 His pallid cheeks and deeply-sunken eyes, 
 Thin faltering limbs, showed sickness must prevail ; 
 And there exposed, with none to heed his cries. 
 Exhausted on the ground, the sickly creature lies.
 
 132 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XL. 
 
 " What ails you, Kate ?" the boys astonished cried : 
 " Are you unwell ? — you shake and shiver so." 
 " No — not unwell — not now," poor Kate replied, 
 " But who is that ? — It must be ! — Is it ? — no ! 
 And yet it must be — yes! it is, I know : — 
 Oh ! George," she cried, "you're very, very ill!" 
 " I am indeed," he answered, murmuring low ; 
 " But yet perhaps I may recover still 
 If you" — "Hush! hush!" she cried, "they're coming down 
 the hill" 
 
 XLI. 
 
 " It matters not," the sickly youth replied, 
 " Who comes or goes, — I care for none but thee : 
 How oft in dreams I've wandered by thy side. 
 Through these sweet scenes in converse kind and free ; 
 And wearying waked an exile still to be. 
 These pleasant scenes, for which I fondly pined. 
 Just as they were in former years I see ; 
 And this old oak hath still upon its rind 
 The name of her I loved, — both then and now unkind."
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 133 
 
 XLII. 
 
 " Nor then nor now the least unkind to thee, 
 Ill-judging youth ! — I loved thee far too well ; 
 If thou hadst seen, what now thou shalt not see^ 
 Thou might'st have known what maidens should not tell, 
 Although their hearts may nigh to bursting swell. 
 But thou art ill!— 'T is idle to afltect 
 The least reserve, when candour may dispel 
 The sickly doubt that leads thee to suspect 
 That I, who love so much, thy suit should still reject." 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 As lamps half- mouldering dimly in a shrine. 
 In doubtful strife, heave flickering to and fro ; 
 When newly trimmed with sudden radiance shine. 
 And all around their cheerful beamings throw. 
 Till shrine and saint with mellow brightness glow : 
 A new-born joy o'er George's features spread ; 
 His care-worn face much younger seemed to grow ; 
 His sad desponding looks at once had fled, 
 And from his sparkling eyes, a sudden light was shed.
 
 134 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 " And am I thus repaid for all my pains ?" 
 Exclaimed the youth, — " thrice happy, happy day ! 
 New life is pulsing through my throbbing veins, 
 The sickness of my heart is fled away : 
 My soul is glad, and nature looks more gay ! 
 Oh ! let me ever, ever thus be blest ; 
 To distant lands I shall not wish to stray; 
 In thy dear arms my fainting heart shall rest. 
 And all my griefs be hushed reposing on thy breast." 
 
 XLV. 
 
 "Hey-day ! what's here?" the Cottager exclaimed, 
 As, unperceived, he laid his hand on Kate ; 
 She started back, and like a bird half-tamed. 
 Would fly away to gain her former state ; 
 But checked by love, she there resolved to wait. 
 Meantime the Cotter cast his wondering eyes 
 From Kate to George, in doubt and self-debate ; 
 Till in his heart he felt the father rise. 
 And pure unmingled joy overcame his first surprise.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 135 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 " My son ! my son ! and is it thus," he cried, 
 " Thus sick on foot they send thee back to me ? — 
 Our country's soldiers ought to be supplied 
 With better means their distant homes to see, 
 Than those who rule have now conferred on thee. 
 But never mind, thou shalt not go again 
 To risk thy life, whoe'er may disagree ; 
 Let foolish France attack disordered Spain, 
 And quarrel as they list, thou shalt at home remain." 
 
 XLVII. 
 
 ** Aye ! that he shall, my poor dear sickly boy !" 
 His mother cried, first bursting into tears ; 
 And then she laughed, o'ercome with sudden joy : 
 And this again was darkened o'er with fears 
 Lest George should die, so sickly he appears. 
 " But no, no, no ! thou wilt not die," she cried. — 
 " Not yet, I hope," said George, " for many years" — 
 Then turning round, he looked on Kate and sighed. 
 And whispered in her ear — " if thou wilt be my bride."
 
 136 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 Meantime the children capered with delight, 
 And clapped their hands, and scampered to and fro : 
 First one drew near to see that all was right. 
 Then back he ran, and placed them in a row, 
 To whisper in their ears — " 'Tis George, I know !" 
 And then they clapped their little hands anew. 
 And shouted loud, their greater joy to show : 
 The youngest child, scarce knowing what to do. 
 First kissed the poor old dog, then clapped and shouted too. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 The first strong feelings of surprise and joy 
 Subsided soon in settled calm delight ; 
 And then they thought what means they'd best employ 
 To move the youth, whose sick and weakly plight 
 Made all things seem a toil, however light. 
 First one proposed to fetch a horse and cart. 
 Another thought the horse alone was right ; 
 " I'll walk," said George, and whispering Kate apart, 
 " 1 feel much stronger now, since you have eased my heart."
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 137 
 
 L. 
 
 " Here, lean on me/' the Cotter kindly said, 
 " For I am strong, and well can bear thy weight :" 
 George took his arm, but turning round his head. 
 With beaming eyes, he gently beckoned Kate, 
 And said he wanted her to make all straight. 
 The blushing girl was quickly by his side. 
 Exulting most, they had not come too late ; 
 " For if, " she said, and as she said it, sighed — 
 " If there he'd lain all night exposed, he must have died." 
 
 LI. 
 
 Supported thus, they slowly wound along 
 The nearest path, which swept the river's side ; 
 Where gurgling waves sent forth their evening-song 
 In gentle tones across the glassy tide : 
 Till on the banks 'mid rustling reeds they died. 
 The clear smooth stream threw back the purple skies 
 So mirror-like the level waves did glide : 
 Save here and there, where fish were seen to rise. 
 And dimpling circles make while catching evening flies.
 
 138 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 LII. 
 
 The full round sun, just touched the distant hill, 
 His crimson face expanding, seemed to glow 
 With tenfold beauty, while he lingered still. 
 As if reluctant halting, moving slow ; 
 Until by force compelled, he sunk below. 
 Majestic clouds had gathered round his head. 
 And when he went, their massive sides could show, 
 In many a form of deeply glowing red. 
 The glory of that light his parting beams had shed. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 With frequent stops the weary youth to rest. 
 They crept along till on the bridge they stood ; 
 The sun's last beams were fading in the West, 
 And less distinct appeared the distant wood. 
 And rising mist obscured the dusky flood. 
 "Thank God!" said George, his dark eyes bright with tears, 
 "How oft of this I've thought 'mid scenes of blood: 
 Just, just the same, as in my younger years. 
 Amid the quiet trees, my native cot appears."
 
 J^''^..^-^.. 
 
 When near the porch the sickly youth they brought, 
 With new dehght his trembling bosom shook ; 
 For as they stood, the pleasing view they caught 
 Of grandam reading in that holy book. 
 From whence her joy — her hope — her all she took. 
 A glimmering taper on the table shone. 
 Which in the gathering twilight made her look 
 Like some old saint in monumental stone : 
 So calm, she seemed, and rapt, while thus with God alone.
 
 140 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 LV. 
 
 They entered in, and George before her came, 
 Whereat she raised her head in vague surprise ; 
 With vacant look she stared to hear her name, 
 Then, filled with doubt, she from her chair did rise 
 And gazed again, and then she rubbed her eyes. 
 " What ! is it thou, my long, long wandering child?" 
 She stammered forth at length with sobs and cries : 
 " Come near, my boy :" George came and gently smiled. 
 And then she laughed aloud hysterically wild. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 Meantime his mother bustled up and down. 
 And soon prepared the comfortable meal ; 
 With apron donned above her Sunday gown. 
 She laid the cloth — placed knife and fork, and steel. 
 While Kate assisted with instinctive zeal. 
 The large brown loaf, cold meat, and homely pie. 
 Were not allowed to make a vain appeal ; 
 But one and all with serious looks did ply. 
 Industrious and intent themselves to gratify.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 141 
 
 LVII. 
 
 The supper done, they clustered round the fire. 
 Its warmth unneeded ; but the cheerful blaze 
 Seemed so attractive as the flames rose higher. 
 That young and old could not refuse to gaze 
 And vent their joy in varying homely phrase. 
 Thrice hallowed spot ! more dear than splendid dome : 
 Well may we love thee, and well may we praise ; 
 For on his hearth, without a wish to roam . 
 An English bosom beats with deepest love of home. 
 
 LVIII. 
 
 Not oft forgetful of her thrifty rules,. 
 The wife resolved for once to give a treat ; 
 And while they fixed the settle, chairs and stools, 
 She brought a bottle from its dark retreat: 
 A large stone jar it seemed, with dust replete ; 
 From this she poured a liquor, dark, yet fine. 
 Then stirred the flames the spicy drink to heat ; 
 A fragrant steam unfolded her design. 
 And soon, well-pleased, they saw the home-made elder- wine.
 
 142 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 The cheerful group with smiling faces sat 
 And sipped their wine ; too hot for drinking fast, 
 Indulging freely in their harmless chat ; 
 While now and then fond looks the mother cast 
 On George, much bettered by his late repast. 
 His pleasant looks went cheerly to her heart ; 
 Her fears were gone — her boy was come at last : 
 He would no more from home and kindred part, 
 And then with quivering joy the tears were seen to start. 
 
 LX. 
 
 " Nay, do not weep," said George, with moistening eye 
 And faltering voice, " I shall not fight again ; 
 Let those that list to fields of battle fly, 
 And seek for glory 'mid those heaps of slain 
 Which taint the air, unburied on the plain. 
 For me the charm can never more revive : 
 I woke to reason on the bed of pain. 
 And saw how States by peaceful arts may thrive. 
 Or sink in ruin when in maddenins; wars thev strive.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 143 
 
 LXI. 
 
 " Oh ! I have seen such sights of death and woe — 
 Such havoc wild in city, camp and field ; 
 When roused to fury trampling on the foe. 
 Men crushed their fellows who refused to yield 
 Those sacred rights by Freedom's God revealed, 
 Down fall the virtues — down the feelings fall. 
 With fiendish joy their brutal power they wield : 
 Wife — daughter — child — destruction seizes all. 
 And man is man no more — his milk is turned to gall. 
 
 LXII. 
 
 " My very soul now sickens as I think 
 Of those sad scenes that passed before mine eye ; 
 When, man by man, I saw my comrades sink. 
 With haggard look and wild heart-rending cry. 
 To live in pain, or else unpitied die. 
 I too had died, my mother, were it not 
 That thou hadst sent this precious book to lie 
 Beside my heart, — a providential spot ; 
 For see ! its well-bound back still holds the fatal shot."
 
 144 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 
 
 LXIII. 
 
 " Thanks, thanks to Him who ordereth all things well !" 
 The mother sobbed, half frantic with delight : 
 She laughed — she cried — and on his neck she fell, 
 " I knew," she said, " that God would make it right, 
 For parents' prayers are precious in his sight !" 
 And then again she clasped him to her breast. 
 And sobbed aloud, until exhausted quite ; 
 Her tear- filled eye upon her son did rest 
 With love so deep, that words its fulness ne'er exprest. 
 
 LXIV. 
 
 Nor could the children, when their mother wept. 
 Help weeping too, although they knew not why ; 
 And as for Kate, although she silent kept 
 And hung her head where none her face could spy. 
 Yet joyous drops fell streaming from her eye. 
 A single tear stole down the Cotter's cheek. 
 In which perchance far greater strength might lie 
 Than outward signs, however strong, could speak, 
 For his emotions deep made all expressions weak.
 
 THE COTTAGER'S SABBATH. 145 
 
 LXV. 
 
 Their feelings calmed, the Cotter rose and said, 
 " Now let us pray !" and kneeling down they prayed 
 That God would still His saving mercies spread 
 About their path, and check them if they strayed. 
 Or felt their hearts by sinful feelings swayed. 
 For all His gifts they might attempt to raise 
 Their feeble songs, in grateful terms arrayed. 
 But how could words declare his gracious ways ? 
 With reverence they adored, and silence spoke his praise. 
 
 M
 
 NOTES. 
 
 Note 1. Page 28. 
 " And Rome's imperial pride, with one gigantic blow." 
 When we read the history, or view the relics of those rehgious 
 buildings which were overthrown by the rude hands of our early 
 reformers, a feeling of regret will sometimes steal over us, that 
 so many splendid specimens of art should have been thus destroyed; 
 and yet, on more mature reflection, we may see the policy of their 
 proceedings, as it would have been almost impossible to have 
 changed the system of worship, if the temples had been allowed to 
 stand. The force of habit and the influence of the senses were both 
 powerfully in favour of the old system, and it required a total dis- 
 ruption of its external symbols, before the more refined truths of the 
 refonned religion could be brought to take root in the minds of the 
 people. The lovers of art may have cause to regret the overthrow 
 of abbeys and churches, but the lovers of truth and freedom should 
 rejoice, that with them was destroyed the most pernicious slavery that 
 ever disgraced the world. 
 
 Note 2. Page 31. 
 " Despite large hoards, with prohibitio7is vile." 
 The practice of stopping the foot-paths across the fields has been 
 carried to a most vexatious extent, in many rural districts, without 
 any regard to the convenience of the public, or the right established 
 by long usage. In many cases, where the neighbouring squires 
 have been of congenial views, they have unscrupulously exercised 
 their power, — removed the stile, — fenced up the place with thorns, 
 and stuck up a large board, with the notice, that " This road is 
 stopped by order of the magistrates." If you enquire, who are 
 the magistrates, the answer is — the very men through whose pro- 
 perty the road runs, and who have thus perverted their magisterial 
 appointments to serve their own personal interests. One case I 
 remember particularly well, when residing in the country, where 
 the stoppage of an old foot-path occasioned a walk of more than
 
 148 NOTES. 
 
 three miles on the dusty turnpike to get to a friend's house, instead of 
 half a mile through some beautifully wooded fields. 
 
 The first time I went that way, after the stile was removed, I 
 found a grey-headed man, upwards of eighty years old, standing 
 against the place, with an expression of mingled grief and anger, 
 I shall not soon forget : — " I have passed this way," said he, " for 
 more than seventy years, and the first time was with my grandfather, 
 who had used it since he was a child — and it is very hard to be shut 
 out now." — " It is," I replied, removing the thorns to let him pass, 
 " but you will not need it much longer." He faltered slowly on 
 his way, and the path still remains closed. 
 
 Note 3. Page 65. 
 " The Stranger's Pew." 
 I once passed a Sunday at a very rural village on the borders of 
 Wales, and on going into the Church, (one of the most ancient I 
 ever saw,) was greatly delighted to see a large pew fitted up with 
 cushions and books, on which was painted " The Stranger's Pew." 
 Being a stranger, the door was opened for me as a matter of course ; 
 and while waiting for the commencement of the service, I could 
 not help contrasting this homely charity with the cold politeness 
 with which I had been allowed to stand in the aisles of some of our 
 stately metropolitan churches, and wishing that they would imitate 
 these rustic Christians in their kindness to the stranger. 
 
 Note 4. Page 122. 
 
 " Whose famished looks declare, he died for toant of bread." 
 
 In the neighbourhood of Codner Castle, Derbyshire, there is a 
 
 story prevalent, that the last of the Zouch family, formerly owners 
 
 of very extensive domains in that part of the country, died of want, 
 
 as related in the text. 
 
 Note 5. Page 123. 
 The titles of the two tales are omitted, to avoid breaking up the 
 regularity of appearance in the body of the work. The first is 
 called "The Desolate Hall," and the second "The Child A^fD 
 the Lamb." 
 
 London: Printed by Stewart and Mdkkay, Old Bailey.
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 rmsVEHSITY OF CALIFORNfiB 
 Um ANGELES
 
 Mullen - 
 
 LOl The cottager's 
 ^33c Sabbath 
 
 PR 
 
 ^101 
 
 M383C 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FAGILlPi' 
 
 AA 000 381 159 3
 
 
 \m\ 
 
 
 ■ I i