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BOOK XI.

• IT had been hoped by many a rural guest
• Who went to share his landlord's sumptuous feast,
• That some great benefit would quickly come—
• Some good soon follow to his humbler home—
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• Some cheerful tidings that the man of power
• Had looked with pity on their adverse hour.
• Knowing the blighted harvest of that year,
• They thought he brought them round his board, to cheer,
• And would, with like benevolent intent,
• Remit some portion of their winter's rent.

• Schooled in the Arab's hospitable lore,
• They thought no guest could enter at that door,
• Or break the bread of plenty at that board,
• Without some heartfelt kindness from its lord—
• Some bond of sympathy, with secret power
• Binding them all more closely, from that hour.
• Vain childlike confidence! where had they learned
• This simple trust, by the keen worldling spurned?
• 'Twas in their peaceful homes—their bowers of rest,
• Where sordid interests seldom goad the breast;
• Where man, uniting in his Maker's plan,
• Knows not his fiercest enemy in man.

• If there still lives simplicity on earth,
• 'Tis where these sons of nature's soil have birth.
• If there be those who know no servile fear—
• Men who can trust their fellow-men, 'tis here;
• If there be hope that smiles are what they seem,
• That human kindness is not all a dream;
• That human fellowship, and human love,
• Have something vital, their mere names above;
• If there be justice—if a sense of right;
• For the oppressed, a fearless arm to fight;
• If there be truth that nobly spurns a lie,
• Nor knows the science of that treachery
• That rules the mart, and stains the courtly robe,
• And mocks reliance o'er the peopled globe.
• If these are ever found beneath the skies,
• 'Tis where our country's peaceful hamlets rise;
• Where men, untutored in the tricks of trade,
• Live—but no longer flourish—in the shade.

• Bright were the hopes that wakened many a smile,
• And cheered the farmers in their wintry toil;
• And William Herbert smiled amongst the rest,
• While the same hope enlivened Henry's breast;
• As forth they rode, one stormy winter's day,
• To face the tempest on the broad highway.
• Swift was their speed, and neither brow betrayed
• Of dark foreboding, or of doubt, a shade.
• More provident—perchance more proud than some,
• Their full amount of rent they bore from home;
• Yet not the less dismissed all thought of fear
• That half would be returned them, for that year.

• What troops they passed that morn along the road!
• Brisk jockeys there their rival steeds bestrode;
• While sober men, who seemed to ride and sleep,
• Dodged through the mire with footfall loud and deep.
• Some, pleased to greet their neighbours as they went,
• Drew up in ranks, as if with one consent;
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• And talking loudly of the price of grain,
• Threw on their horses' necks the loosened rein.

• The concourse thickened as the town they neared,
• And soon their landlord's equipage appeared,
• Hailed by his faithful tenantry around
• With kindling joy, yet with respect profound.
• Some thought that none that equipage excelled,
• Even when a royal festival was held;
• Some praised the servants, and a few their dress;
• Some thought the great man easy of access;
• While more approved his horses, and bestowed
• Their utmost praise on one he sometimes rode.

• It had been easy to have bound those men
• By love and gratitude's enduring chain;
• They were so simple, and so fain to trust
• To that great lord for what was kind and just.
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• Then let us trace them on their homeward way,
• When darkness fell upon that wintry day.
• Sharp was the sleet, and fiercely blew the wind,
• Piercing and pitiless, as if to find
• Some wound to search—some undefended part
• By which to rend a passage to the heart.
• 'Twas not enough, the smarting eye-balls felt
• That icy shower in tears of anguish melt;
• 'Twas not enough, the cheek was scathed and bare,
• Robbed of all natural shelter from the hair;
• 'Twas not enough, the hand that held the rein
• Stiffened with cold, or agonized with pain;
• But that rude wind drove back the folded coat,
• With savage purpose sought the guarded throat,
• Through each small crevice sent a quivering wound,
• And then, with louder triumph, howled around.

• And there were some who met the blast that night,
• And had enough to feel, without the spite
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• Of sleet, or gale, or winter's withering frost:
• For now their last—their only hope was lost.
• Nor lost their hope alone. Strange tidings came
• To make that day of memorable name.
• Their landlord, kind and complaisant of mood,
• Smiled on them all, and hoped they understood
• What the great pressure of the times required;
• How able men, in what they most desired
• As best and wisest for the state, should be
• Supported by their faithful tenantry.
• In short, amid the wreck of that sad year,
• He plainly told them, that they must appear
• On the next rent-day with an added sum;
• That he was going abroad; but one would come
• Well authorized, and able to enforce,
• In all he wished, to adopt the surest course.
• “You have your choice,” he said, “to go, or stay;
• But I must have my money, come what may.”

• How did they bear those tidings? Some went home
• Early, and sullenly. Like children, some
• Pleaded, and strove to modify their doom;
• While others, reckless—maddened with despair,
• Feasted, and drank, and drove away their care;
• Till, blustering forth, and battling with the blast,
• They reeled away, and found their homes at last.

• Long ere these revellers forsook the board,
• Had William Herbert left its courteous lord;
• Henry had silently led forth his steed,
• And both pursued their homeward way with speed.
• Nor had one word escaped them, till they drew
• Near to the lane where their own poplars grew;
• When slackened both the rein, and slowly trod
• Their weary horses that familiar road.

• “I have been thinking,” said the farmer, then,
• “Whom I can spare amongst my labouring men.
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• All have been like one family to me,
• But some must be dismissed, I plainly see.
• It grieves my heart these cruel truths to say;
• Yet the old shepherd hardly earns his pay;
• The poor lame boy, who keeps our garden trim,
• His distant parish will provide for him;
• And Phebe's father, so infirm and slow,
• To the new workhouse we must make him go.”

• “Or go ourselves,” said Henry; “'twere as well,
• As thus the pauper catalogue to swell.”

• “I once had hoped,” his father calmly said,
• “In life's decline, to rest my weary head
• Amongst these people; and to find a grave
• Beneath the elms that in yon churchyard wave;
• Leaving behind me many a happy home,
• Followed with blessings to the peaceful tomb,
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• But I must act this cold ungrateful part,
• Must drive them from my door, and from my heart;
• Bid them begone, because their strength has failed,
• Age has enfeebled, or disease assailed.
• This is their recompense for years of toil,
• This the sole tribute of their native soil.”

• 'Twas even so; and while that wintry gale
• Swept through the cot, and chilled its inmates pale,
• While the black clouds burst with their fleecy load,
• And drifting snow lay thick upon the road,
• The farmer forced himself, with aching heart,
• To tell his faithful labourers they must part.
• And one went home to spend that evening cold
• Without a fire—he was infirm and old.
• Another tried to smile, and say good-night,
• But dashed away the tears that dimmed his sight.
• A third looked up into his master's face,
• And would have spoken; but his speech gave place
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• To sullen pride, for he had served him well,
• And long—why should he stoop his griefs to tell?

• So they retired, a silent, joyless train,
• Ne'er to retrace that well-known path again.
• They closed the gate, whose echo brought to mind
• The love long cherished for their master kind;
• They turned, and saw the glimmering of his fire,
• How could he wish their comforts to expire?
• And he so wealthy, in that spacious home,
• Where flitting forms were seen, from room to room
• Gliding about, as if no thought of care
• Had ever reached the happy inmates there.

• Sad were the tidings to their village brought,
• While busy rumour half the story caught,
• And tinged the other half with darker hue,
• From vague conclusions, neither kind nor true.
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• Yet true it was, that, ere a month had gone,
• These men, and more, were on their parish thrown,
• Tasting the tender mercies known to those,
• And those alone, who feel the pauper's woes.
• And some were placed along the public way,
• With weary hammer labouring all the day;
• While others, more ill-fated, worked their rounds
• From house to house, their ears assailed by sounds
• That had no soothing for the sons of care,
• And bade them anything but welcome there.

• Much has been said of slavery abroad,
• Much has been done, and nobly, that this load
• Might be removed, and Britain's glorious name
• Stand forth unsullied by one taint of shame.
• And over all this isle has spread the sound,
• When men have proved, by argument profound,
• That slavery does not only gall and bind
• The human body, but degrade the mind.
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• Yet, have we not, within our favoured realm,
• Where justice reigns, and wisdom guides the helm,
• Seen bondage galling as the actual chain
• That binds the negro to his task of pain?
• Have we not seen, when hands that oft have held
• The spade or sickle in the open field;
• When sinewy arms well skilled to guide the plough,
• To drive the team, to reap the grain, or sow;
• When forms herculean, warmed by hearts as bold,
• With strength that scarcely in old age grew old:
• Were driven by dire necessity to swell
• The pauper's ranks, or bid their homes farewell;
• To ask for help, unwillingly bestowed,
• Or gain, instead, those bitter taunts that goad
• The generous bosom in its hour of need;
• When, but for helpless children wanting bread,
• The sturdy suppliant would rather die,
• Than tax the parish for his own supply.

• That winter was a dreary one to all;
• Dark were the days, and sullen was the fall
• Of silent snow upon the frozen earth;
• And hushed was many a voice that spoke of mirth
• In days gone by, when village hearths burned bright,
• And youths and maidens hailed the winter's night,
• With all its frolic, and its social cheer,
• Its gathering home of friends long-tried and dear.
• Where are they now? The hamlet seems to sleep
• 'Mid the white plain, so pathless and so deep,
• That scarce the shepherd toils his wonted way,
• To strew the ground with welcome heaps of hay,
• To guard the fence, or trim the low-roofed shed,
• Or track the wandering sheep with dubious tread.

• Nor looked the world less dreary, when there fell
• A drizzling rain; when streams began to swell,
• And heave their icy burdens to the brink;
• And the deep drifts to melt away, and sink;
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• And here, and there, along the fields, were seen
• Ridges of earth, and spots of mournful green.

• It needs some thought to solace or to please
• The farmer, when he looks on scenes like these;
• Some hope to lead him forth, when falls the rain,
• To turn the watercourse, to guard his grain,
• The sluice to widen, or the trench to cast,
• By skill ingenious, and by labour vast.
• Nor thinks the townsman on his couch of rest
• What anxious fears assail the farmer's breast;
• What shifting plans must agitate his mind,
• With every change that rules the restless wind.
• Yet neither comfort came with cheering smile
• To William Herbert, nor did hope beguile;
• And while his brows was shadowed o'er with care,
• Henry's expression looked more like despair.
• For he would sit, his daily labour done,
• Through that long hour, ere evening has begun,
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• Resting his elbow on the table near,
• Upon his hand, his brow so pale, and clear;
• While his thick raven hair, with natural flow,
• Cast a deep shadow o'er his cheek below;
• And his dark eyes, that sometimes seemed to see
• Nothing, on earth, but hopeless misery,
• Fixed on the fire their melancholy gaze,
• And watched unmoved the flickering of the blaze:
• Nor turned away, when others' prattling mood
• Upon his silent musing would intrude;
• Nor yet awoke to answering smiles of love,
• When the fair Emma would his patience prove,
• By questions idle, and ill framed to please,
• To soothe his grief, or cure his mind's disease.

• Yet was it only at the darkening hour
• Of winter's twilight, that the secret power
• Of speechless thought sat brooding o'er his soul,
• Chaining its energies with stern control.
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• Brisk morning drove him early to the field,
• The fence to prop, the sturdy axe to wield;
• And when the frost had melted from the ground,
• Amongst the flocks and herds to trace his round;
• To guide the plough along the fallow plain,
• Or strew once more, with skilful hand, the grain.

• And could this toil, unceasingly pursued—
• Could health, or youth with impulse firm and good—
• Could manly will, by noble purpose moved,
• Sufficient for their hour of need have proved;
• The farmer and his son might ne'er have known
• Such gloomy shadows o'er their future thrown.
• But all too late their effort to redeem
• Errors long past. There was no human scheme,
• Nor power in industry, or human thought,
• To meet such evils as the past had wrought.
• And hard it seems to battle with the rage
• Of storm and tempest; constant war to wage
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• With foes so pitiless as sleet and hail,
• When clouds are dark, and northern winds prevail;
• Yet feel no cheering promise in the breast,
• That here, at last, may weary age find rest.

• 'Twas long ere spring with verdure clothed the plain,
• That Lucy Herbert traced those paths again
• Which led her where disease its vigil kept,
• Where want complained, or hopeless suffering wept.
• Her sister Martha, generous still, and true
• To those she loved in childhood, ne'er withdrew
• Her heart's warm interest from the lowly few
• Who used to claim her sympathy and care;
• And now that richer boons her hand could spare,
• Lucy was made her almoner, and bore
• Bounty and blessing to the needy poor.

• Sore was her trial when she talked with those
• Who to her father traced their wants and woes;
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• Who thought him pitiless, and hard of heart,
• With his old friends so willingly to part.
• Yet had she ever known, from earliest youth,
• The touching eloquence of simple truth;
• And her mild speech, and earnest looks, could win
• Entire belief, when argument had been
• Fruitless and vain, as breath of idle wind,
• To check the impulse of a wounded mind.
• Thus had she felt more earnestly the need
• Of her mild influence, when the tidings spread
• Of discontent amongst the village poor,
• Driven, as they called it, from the farmer's door.
• And thus she stayed not for the rains to cease,
• The skies to clear, or winds to hold their peace;
• But, like some gentle flower, too frail to last,
• That bares too soon its bosom to the blast,
• She went, regardless of herself, and strove
• To waken for her father, thoughts of love;
• To prove him blameless, and to still the sigh,
• And hush the murmurings, of despondency.

• Nor was her lightest task in Phebe's home,
• Where oft in childhood she was wont to come;
• Where the old father, querulous with pain,
• Of many a lighter grievance would complain.
• But now such complicated ills prevailed,
• That scarce her soothing sympathy availed.
• “Troubles,” he said, “are never sent alone.”
• And then he told his over, one by one;
• How, in old age upon the parish cast,
• His daughter Phebe, at the very last,
• When all things darkened round him, and her care
• Alone remained to make him not despair—
• How she could leave him—yes, could choose to wed,
• Not to remain at home, and shield his head;
• But to go forth, where wild Atlantic waves
• Tempt idle youths to seek untimely graves.

• Lucy was listening, but her ear had caught
• Another well-known sound; and quick as thought
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• Once the warm hectic would have stained her cheek,
• But now no more its tell-tale blushes speak.
• Calm, pale, and passionless—almost as cold
• As marble, she could now behold
• The moving form, and hear the living voice
• Of him whose love would once have been her choice
• Above all treasures, and above all bliss:
• Of all that earth could yield, her soul had asked but this.

• She had so loved him: not a thought had been
• In her pure mind, that he might not have seen;
• Nor vague desire might ever there intrude,
• Nor wish, that sought not to promote his good;
• Nor could imagination wake one hope,
• But he was still its centre, and its scope.
• She had so loved him—with such childlike trust,
• Looking to him for what was great, and just,
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• Generous, and noble, and approved of heaven;
• That scarce a more enduring faith was given
• To her meek prayers, than to her earthly love;
• Bearing her up, life's troubled waves above.
• And thus it was, that when this sacred chain
• Was broken, nothing could unite again
• Its severed links—that nothing could impart
• The slightest value to one separate part.
• It was the entireness of the perfect whole
• That gave it strength and beauty to her soul.
• That strength had failed her: haply it was well,
• For, from that hour, she bade this world farewell.
• Yet seemed it only fading from her view,
• To leave the colouring of the next more true;
• And while she dwelt on earth, 'twas but as one
• Whose task of earthly toil is nearly done.
• Thus was her spirit seldom moved to grief,
• And her eyes wept not. 'Twould have been relief
• To natural feeling; but that fount was sealed
• By silent suffering, to no ear revealed.

• 'Twas strange that Lucy now could calmly hear
• The voice that once had been too kind, and dear;
• And raise her eyes unblushing to that face,
• Nor linger, lines of beauty there to trace.
• Yet such things have been; and she was not one
• To shrink from tasks of duty when begun.
• She felt like some lone pilgrim, and her day
• Of weariness was wearing fast away.
• Then what to her were shadows o'er her path,
• Clouds in the sky, or in the tempest, wrath?
• A few brief months—it might be only days,
• And she no more would tread the thorny ways
• That o'er this world's vast wilderness extend.
• Happy for her, that journey soon would end.

• 'Twas in such confidence, that Lucy heard
• That well-known voice—yes, every tone and word;
• But joined not in familiar converse there,
• Apart she sate; she did not choose to share
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• Social communion, or exchange of thought,
• With one whose hand by money might be bought.
• Yet, had she said good-night, and left that scene,
• Perchance his patronizing care had been
• Extended to her solitary walk;
• So she remained, to hear the poor man talk
• Of all his sorrows; while the pastor told
• Of consolation; but with look so cold,
• And tone so regulated, smooth, and mild,
• As never yet the sorrowing heart beguiled.

• At length he rose; and Lucy breathed again
• When he was gone, with less oppressive pain;
• And hastened forth to meet the chilly blast,
• While deepening shadows o'er her path were cast.

• It was a cold March evening, and there blew
• A piercing gale; and Lucy, shivering, drew
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• Her cloak around her frail and slender form,
• That bent beneath the anger of the storm.
• Yet had there been some hopeful sign of spring
• In birds that fluttered on the joyous wing,
• And firmer felt the ground beneath the tread,
• And the pale snowdrop reared its drooping head,
• While lengthening daylight lingered in the west,
• And earlier woke the labourer from his rest.
• And Lucy, as she closed her father's gate,
• Heard the old rook, that in the elm-tree sate,
• Soothe his companions with a solemn caw,
• Bidding them fear not—he no danger saw.

• Such were the omens of returning spring.
• To health, and youth, sweet promise did they bring.
• But Lucy, from that cold and cheerless day,
• Looked not the same: she seemed to fade away;
• And though bright spring with gladness came at last,
• She bloomed no more—her spring of life was past.
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• She heard the birds sing gaily o'er her head;
• But her pale cheek was pillowed on her bed.
• They brought her flowers—wild flowers, that once she loved,
• When through the fields her wandering footsteps roved;
• She thanked her friends, and called them kind, and good;
• Yet smiled for joy, far less than gratitude
• For while she prayed to wait more patiently,
• Her yearning heart was pining to be free.

• Why should we wish for those we love to stay
• And meet the conflict of another day?
• When wings of faith are theirs, to bear their flight
• Up to the realms of everlasting light?
• Yet nature mourns, when merciless decay
• Steals o'er the loved one while the world looks gay;
• When skies are bright, and western gales blow soft,
• And odorous breath of opening blossoms waft;
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• And sparkling streams flow with a silvery sound,
• Wakening the verdure of the earth around;
• When all is fair, and life so full of joy,
• We scarce believe that blight will e'er destroy.
• Hard is it then to watch the loveliest brow
• Round which the sunny ringlets used to flow
• Darkening with death—the feet whose joyous speed
• Trod the green lawn, and flower-enamelled mead,
• Tracing their lonely pathway to the grave—
• No power to stay their course—no help to save.
• Hard is it then, when beauty paints the sky,
• And living things that mount the air, and fly
• On happy wing, are warbling out their bliss—
• Hard is it then, amid such joy as this,
• To see our loved one hastening to the tomb,
• To watch the cherished of our social home
• From the fresh fields, the garden, and the bower,
• Passing away like some untimely flower.
• And not a sunbeam fading from above,
• Nor scented blossom withering in the grove,
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• Nor silvery streamlet lingering on its way,
• Nor sportive idler pausing in its play,
• Nor soaring bird, in all the sunny sky,
• Singing the less because that flower must die.

• Amid such scenes did Lucy Herbert lie
• So faint, and breathless, that the breeze passed by—
• The odour-scented breeze—and brought no balm—
• No power to heal her malady, or calm
• Her fluttering pulse, which seemed to wear away
• All hope that life would linger out the day.
• Her father, seated by her restless bed,
• Kind words of gentlest soothing sometimes said;
• And when soft sunset through the casement shone
• He still was there, and they were left alone.

• “Father,” she said, “the day is nearly done;
• I shall not live to see to-morrow's sun.
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• Let me be laid beside my mother's grave,
• Where the green elms their evening shadows wave.”

• Then did she stretch her thin white hand to his,
• And drew him near to meet her gentle kiss,
• And held his forehead to her feverish cheek,
• As if some other words she yet must speak.

• “Father,” she said, once more, “I would not wake
• Pain in your bosom; yet I may not take
• This burden on my conscience to the grave.
• Love is not only given to bless, but save.
• And I, if I had truly loved your soul,
• Had sought to win it from the world's control.
• Yet hear me now—the last time I shall speak—
• The last time I shall kiss a parent's cheek.
• Hear me, and question not—my words are true;
• And well I know they must be short, and few.
• This world, dear father, is no place of rest,
• Lean not, nor hope for safety, on its breast;
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• Nor yield to hopeless sorrow, or despair,
• If seeming good should sometimes prove a snare.
• Think of my mother in her heavenly home,
• And one, the weakest child of earth. Oh, come
• And join us there, and let us meet at last
• Happy and safe, when life's dark waves are passed!”

• She ceased; and o'er her lip, and cheek, and brow,
• A burning tide of crimson seemed to flow.
• It passed away; and the cold dews of death
• Came in its stead, and sunk her fluttering breath.
• And so she faded from the joyous earth.
• A vacant place was at her father's hearth;
• And where the elms their evening shadows wave,
• She slept in peace beside her mother's grave.