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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=508050" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>English Eclogues VI - The Ruined Cottage</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Aye Charles! I knew that this would fix thine eye,<br>This woodbine wreathing round the broken porch,<br>Its leaves just withering, yet one autumn flower<br>Still fresh and fragrant; and yon holly-hock<br>That thro' the creeping weeds and nettles tall<br>Peers taller, and uplifts its column'd stem<br>Bright with the broad rose-blossoms. I have seen<br>Many a fallen convent reverend in decay,<br>And many a time have trod the castle courts<br>And grass-green halls, yet never did they strike<br>Home to the heart such melancholy thoughts<br>As this poor cottage. Look, its little hatch<br>Fleeced with that grey and wintry moss; the roof<br>Part mouldered in, the rest o'ergrown with weeds,<br>House-leek and long thin grass and greener moss;<br>So Nature wars with all the works of man.<br>And, like himself, reduces back to earth<br>His perishable piles.<br>I led thee here<br>Charles, not without design; for this hath been<br>My favourite walk even since I was a boy;<br>And I remember Charles, this ruin here,<br>The neatest comfortable dwelling place!<br>That when I read in those dear books that first<br>Woke in my heart the love of poesy,<br>How with the villagers Erminia dwelt,<br>And Calidore for a fair shepherdess<br>Forgot his quest to learn the shepherd's lore;<br>My fancy drew from, this the little hut<br>Where that poor princess wept her hopeless love,<br>Or where the gentle Calidore at eve<br>Led Pastorella home. There was not then<br>A weed where all these nettles overtop<br>The garden wall; but sweet-briar, scenting sweet<br>The morning air, rosemary and marjoram,<br>All wholesome herbs; and then, that woodbine wreath'd<br>So lavishly around the pillared porch<br>Its fragrant flowers, that when I past this way,<br>After a truant absence hastening home,<br>I could not chuse but pass with slacken'd speed<br>By that delightful fragrance. Sadly changed<br>Is this poor cottage! and its dwellers, Charles!--<br>Theirs is a simple melancholy tale,<br>There's scarce a village but can fellow it,<br>And yet methinks it will not weary thee,<br>And should not be untold.<br>A widow woman<br>Dwelt with her daughter here; just above want,<br>She lived on some small pittance that sufficed,<br>In better times, the needful calls of life,<br>Not without comfort. I remember her<br>Sitting at evening in that open door way<br>And spinning in the sun; methinks I see her<br>Raising her eyes and dark-rimm'd spectacles<br>To see the passer by, yet ceasing not<br>To twirl her lengthening thread. Or in the garden<br>On some dry summer evening, walking round<br>To view her flowers, and pointing, as she lean'd<br>Upon the ivory handle of her stick,<br>To some carnation whose o'erheavy head<br>Needed support, while with the watering-pot<br>Joanna followed, and refresh'd and trimm'd<br>The drooping plant; Joanna, her dear child,<br>As lovely and as happy then as youth<br>And innocence could make her.<br>Charles! it seems<br>As tho' I were a boy again, and all<br>The mediate years with their vicissitudes<br>A half-forgotten dream. I see the Maid<br>So comely in her Sunday dress! her hair,<br>Her bright brown hair, wreath'd in contracting curls,<br>And then her cheek! it was a red and white<br>That made the delicate hues of art look loathsome,<br>The countrymen who on their way to church<br>Were leaning o'er the bridge, loitering to hear<br>The bell's last summons, and in idleness<br>Watching the stream below, would all look up<br>When she pass'd by. And her old Mother, Charles!<br>When I have beard some erring infidel<br>Speak of our faith as of a gloomy creed,<br>Inspiring fear and boding wretchedness.<br>Her figure has recurr'd; for she did love<br>The sabbath-day, and many a time has cross'd<br>These fields in rain and thro' the winter snows.<br>When I, a graceless boy, wishing myself<br>By the fire-side, have wondered why 'she' came<br>Who might have sate at home.<br>One only care<br>Hung on her aged spirit. For herself,<br>Her path was plain before her, and the close<br>Of her long journey near. But then her child<br>Soon to be left alone in this bad world,--<br>That was a thought that many a winter night<br>Had kept her sleepless: and when prudent love<br>In something better than a servant's slate<br>Had placed her well at last, it was a pang<br>Like parting life to part with her dear girl.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">One summer, Charles, when at the holydays<br>Return'd from school, I visited again<br>My old accustomed walks, and found in them.<br>A joy almost like meeting an old friend,<br>I saw the cottage empty, and the weeds<br>Already crowding the neglected flowers.<br>Joanna by a villain's wiles seduced<br>Had played the wanton, and that blow had reach'd<br>Her mother's heart. She did not suffer long,<br>Her age was feeble, and the heavy blow<br>Brought her grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I pass this ruin'd dwelling oftentimes<br>And think of other days. It wakes in me<br>A transient sadness, but the feelings Charles<br>That ever with these recollections rise,<br>I trust in God they will not pass away.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+Southey">Robert Southey</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=508050" data-title="English Eclogues VI - The Ruined Cottage de Robert Southey" data-description="Aye Charles! I knew that this would fix thine eye,
This woodbine wreathing round the broken porch,
Its leaves just withering, yet one autumn flower
Still fresh and fragrant; and yon holly-hock
That thro' the creeping weeds and nettles tall
Peers t..."></div>
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