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Robert Southey - English Eclogues VI - The Ruined Cottage
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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 taller, and uplifts its column`d stem
  Bright with the broad rose-blossoms. I have seen
  Many a fallen convent reverend in decay,
  And many a time have trod the castle courts
  And grass-green halls, yet never did they strike
  Home to the heart such melancholy thoughts
  As this poor cottage. Look, its little hatch
  Fleeced with that grey and wintry moss; the roof
  Part mouldered in, the rest o`ergrown with weeds,
  House-leek and long thin grass and greener moss;
  So Nature wars with all the works of man.
  And, like himself, reduces back to earth
  His perishable piles.
                         I led thee here
  Charles, not without design; for this hath been
  My favourite walk even since I was a boy;
  And I remember Charles, this ruin here,
  The neatest comfortable dwelling place!
  That when I read in those dear books that first
  Woke in my heart the love of poesy,
  How with the villagers Erminia dwelt,
  And Calidore for a fair shepherdess
  Forgot his quest to learn the shepherd`s lore;
  My fancy drew from, this the little hut
  Where that poor princess wept her hopeless love,
  Or where the gentle Calidore at eve
  Led Pastorella home. There was not then
  A weed where all these nettles overtop
  The garden wall; but sweet-briar, scenting sweet
  The morning air, rosemary and marjoram,
  All wholesome herbs; and then, that woodbine wreath`d
  So lavishly around the pillared porch
  Its fragrant flowers, that when I past this way,
  After a truant absence hastening home,
  I could not chuse but pass with slacken`d speed
  By that delightful fragrance. Sadly changed
  Is this poor cottage! and its dwellers, Charles!--
  Theirs is a simple melancholy tale,
  There`s scarce a village but can fellow it,
  And yet methinks it will not weary thee,
  And should not be untold.
                             A widow woman
  Dwelt with her daughter here; just above want,
  She lived on some small pittance that sufficed,
  In better times, the needful calls of life,
  Not without comfort. I remember her
  Sitting at evening in that open door way
  And spinning in the sun; methinks I see her
  Raising her eyes and dark-rimm`d spectacles
  To see the passer by, yet ceasing not
  To twirl her lengthening thread. Or in the garden
  On some dry summer evening, walking round
  To view her flowers, and pointing, as she lean`d
  Upon the ivory handle of her stick,
  To some carnation whose o`erheavy head
  Needed support, while with the watering-pot
  Joanna followed, and refresh`d and trimm`d
  The drooping plant; Joanna, her dear child,
  As lovely and as happy then as youth
  And innocence could make her.
                                 Charles! it seems
  As tho` I were a boy again, and all
  The mediate years with their vicissitudes
  A half-forgotten dream. I see the Maid
  So comely in her Sunday dress! her hair,
  Her bright brown hair, wreath`d in contracting curls,
  And then her cheek! it was a red and white
  That made the delicate hues of art look loathsome,
  The countrymen who on their way to church
  Were leaning o`er the bridge, loitering to hear
  The bell`s last summons, and in idleness
  Watching the stream below, would all look up
  When she pass`d by. And her old Mother, Charles!
  When I have beard some erring infidel
  Speak of our faith as of a gloomy creed,
  Inspiring fear and boding wretchedness.
  Her figure has recurr`d; for she did love
  The sabbath-day, and many a time has cross`d
  These fields in rain and thro` the winter snows.
  When I, a graceless boy, wishing myself
  By the fire-side, have wondered why `she` came
  Who might have sate at home.
                               One only care
  Hung on her aged spirit. For herself,
  Her path was plain before her, and the close
  Of her long journey near. But then her child
  Soon to be left alone in this bad world,--
  That was a thought that many a winter night
  Had kept her sleepless: and when prudent love
  In something better than a servant`s slate
  Had placed her well at last, it was a pang
  Like parting life to part with her dear girl.

  One summer, Charles, when at the holydays
  Return`d from school, I visited again
  My old accustomed walks, and found in them.
  A joy almost like meeting an old friend,
  I saw the cottage empty, and the weeds
  Already crowding the neglected flowers.
  Joanna by a villain`s wiles seduced
  Had played the wanton, and that blow had reach`d
  Her mother`s heart. She did not suffer long,
  Her age was feeble, and the heavy blow
  Brought her grey hairs with sorrow to the grave.

  I pass this ruin`d dwelling oftentimes
  And think of other days. It wakes in me
  A transient sadness, but the feelings Charles
  That ever with these recollections rise,
  I trust in God they will not pass away.
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