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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=455730" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Widow's Home</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Close on the margin of a brawling brook<br>That bathes the low dell's bosom, stands a Cot;<br>O'ershadow'd by broad Alders. At its door<br>A rude seat, with an ozier canopy<br>Invites the weary traveller to rest.<br>'Tis a poor humble dwelling; yet within,<br>The sweets of joy domestic, oft have made<br>The long hour not unchearly, while the Moor<br>Was covered with deep snow, and the bleak blast<br>Swept with impetuous wing the mountain's brow!<br>On ev'ry tree of the near shelt'ring wood<br>The minstrelsy of Nature, shrill and wild,<br>Welcomes the stranger guest, and carolling<br>Love-songs, spontaneous, greets him merrily.<br>The distant hills, empurpled by the dawn<br>And thinly scatter'd with blue mists that float<br>On their bleak summits dimly visible,<br>Skirt the domain luxuriant, while the air<br>Breathes healthful fragrance. On the Cottage roof<br>The gadding Ivy, and the tawny Vine<br>Bind the brown thatch, the shelter'd winter-hut<br>Of the tame Sparrow, and the Red-breast bold.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There dwells the Soldier's Widow! young and fair<br>Yet not more fair than virtuous. Every day<br>She wastes the hour-glass, waiting his return,--<br>And every hour anticipates the day,<br>(Deceiv'd, yet cherish'd by the flatt'rer hope)<br>When she shall meet her Hero. On the Eve<br>Of Sabbath rest, she trims her little hut<br>With blossoms, fresh and gaudy, still, herself<br>The queen-flow'r of the garland ! The sweet Rose<br>Of wood-wild beauty, blushing thro' her tears.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">One little Son she has, a lusty Boy,<br>The darling of her guiltless, mourning heart,<br>The only dear and gay associate<br>Of her lone widowhood. His sun-burnt cheek<br>Is never blanch'd with fear, though he will climb<br>The broad oak's branches, and with brawny arm<br>Sever the limpid wave. In his blue eye<br>Beams all his mother's gentleness of soul;<br>While his brave father's warm intrepid heart<br>Throbs in his infant bosom. 'Tis a wight<br>Most valourous, yet pliant as the stem<br>Of the low vale-born lily, when the dew<br>Presses its perfum'd head. Eight years his voice<br>Has chear'd the homely hut, for he could lisp<br>Soft words of filial fondness, ere his feet<br>Could measure the smooth path-way.<br>On the hills<br>He watches the wide waste of wavy green<br>Tissued with orient lustre, till his eyes<br>Ache with the dazzling splendour, and the main,<br>Rolling and blazing, seems a second Sun !<br>And, if a distant whitening sail appears,<br>Skimming the bright horizon while the mast<br>Is canopied with clouds of dappled gold,<br>He homeward hastes rejoicing. An old Tree<br>Is his lone watch-tow'r; 'tis a blasted Oak<br>Which, from a vagrant Acorn, ages past,<br>Sprang up, to triumph like a Savage bold<br>Braving the Season's warfare. There he sits<br>Silent and musing the long Evening hour,<br>'Till the short reign of Sunny splendour fades<br>At the cold touch of twilight. Oft he sings;<br>Or from his oaten pipe, untiring pours<br>The tune mellifluous which his father sung,<br>When HE could only listen.<br>On the sands<br>That bind the level sea-shore, will he stray,<br>When morn unlocks the East, and flings afar<br>The rosy day-beam ! There the boy will stop<br>To gather the dank weeds which ocean leaves<br>On the bleak strand, while winter o'er the main<br>Howls its nocturnal clamour. There again<br>He chaunts his Father's ditty. Never more<br>Poor mountain minstrel, shall thy bosom throb<br>To the sweet cadence ! never more thy tear<br>Fall as the dulcet breathings give each word<br>Expression magical ! Thy Father, Boy,<br>Sleeps on the bed of death ! His tongue is mute,<br>His fingers have forgot their pliant art,<br>His oaten pipe will ne'er again be heard<br>Echoing along the valley ! Never more<br>Will thy fond mother meet the balmy smile<br>Of peace domestic, or the circling arm<br>Of valour, temper'd by the milder joys<br>Of rural merriment. His very name<br>Is now forgotten! for no trophied tomb<br>Tells of his bold exploits; such heraldry<br>Befits not humble worth: For pomp and praise<br>Wait in the gilded palaces of Pride<br>To dress Ambition's Slaves. Yet, on his grave,<br>The unmark'd resting place of Valour's Sons,<br>The morning beam shines lust'rous; The meek flow'r<br>Still drops the twilight tear, and the night breeze<br>Moans melancholy music!<br>Then, to ME,<br>O ! dearer far is the poor Soldier's grave,<br>The Widow's lone and unregarded Cot,<br>The brawling Brook, and the wide Alder-bough,<br>The ozier Canopy, and plumy choir,<br>Hymning the Morn's return, than the rich Dome<br>Of gilded Palaces ! and sweeter far--<br>O! far more graceful ! far more exquisite,<br>The Widow's tear bathing the living rose,<br>Than the rich ruby, blushing on the breast,<br>Of guilty greatness. Welcome then to me--<br>The WIDOW'S LOWLY HOME : The Soldier's HEIR;<br>The proud inheritor of Heav'n's best gifts--<br>The mind unshackled--and the guiltless Soul!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Mary+Darby+Robinson">Mary Darby Robinson</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=455730" data-title="The Widow's Home de Mary Darby Robinson" data-description="Close on the margin of a brawling brook
That bathes the low dell's bosom, stands a Cot;
O'ershadow'd by broad Alders. At its door
A rude seat, with an ozier canopy
Invites the weary traveller to rest.
'Tis a poor humble dwelling; yet within,
The s..."></div>
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