Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE RUINED COTTAGE, by ROBERT SOUTHEY Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Ay, charles! I knew that this would fix thine eye Last Line: I trust in god they will not pass away. Subject(s): Boys; Children; Home; Life Change Events; Memory; Men; Nostalgia; Widows & Widowers; Childhood | ||||||||
AY, 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 hollyhock That through 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 moulder'd in, the rest o'ergrown with weeds, House-leek, and long thin grass, and greener moss; So Nature steals on all the works of man, Sure conqueror she, reclaiming to herself 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 which 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 pass'd this way, After a truant absence hastening home, I could not choose 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 though 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 heard 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 hath cross'd These fields in rain and through the winter snows, When I, a graceless boy, wishing myself By the fire-side, have wonder'd 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 which many a winter night Had kept her sleepless; and when prudent love In something better than a servant's state 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 accustom'd 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, Which ever with these recollections rise, I trust in God they will not pass away. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE THREE CHILDREN by JOSEPHINE JACOBSEN CHILDREN SELECTING BOOKS IN A LIBRARY by RANDALL JARRELL COME TO THE STONE ... by RANDALL JARRELL THE LOST WORLD by RANDALL JARRELL A SICK CHILD by RANDALL JARRELL CONTINENT'S END by ROBINSON JEFFERS ON THE DEATH OF FRIENDS IN CHILDHOOD by DONALD JUSTICE THE POET AT SEVEN by DONALD JUSTICE BISHOP BRUNO by ROBERT SOUTHEY |
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