The Widow's Home by Mary Darby Robinson

Close on the margin of a brawling brookThat bathes the low dell's bosom, stands a Cot;O'ershadow'd by broad Alders. At its doorA rude seat, with an ozier canopyInvites the weary traveller to rest.'Tis a poor humble dwelling; yet within,The sweets of joy domestic, oft have madeThe long hour not unchearly, while the MoorWas covered with deep snow, and the bleak blastSwept with impetuous wing the mountain's brow!On ev'ry tree of the near shelt'ring woodThe minstrelsy of Nature, shrill and wild,Welcomes the stranger guest, and carollingLove-songs, spontaneous, greets him merrily.The distant hills, empurpled by the dawnAnd thinly scatter'd with blue mists that floatOn their bleak summits dimly visible,Skirt the domain luxuriant, while the airBreathes healthful fragrance. On the Cottage roofThe gadding Ivy, and the tawny VineBind the brown thatch, the shelter'd winter-hutOf the tame Sparrow, and the Red-breast bold.

There dwells the Soldier's Widow! young and fairYet not more fair than virtuous. Every dayShe wastes the hour-glass, waiting his return,--And every hour anticipates the day,(Deceiv'd, yet cherish'd by the flatt'rer hope)When she shall meet her Hero. On the EveOf Sabbath rest, she trims her little hutWith blossoms, fresh and gaudy, still, herselfThe queen-flow'r of the garland ! The sweet RoseOf wood-wild beauty, blushing thro' her tears.

One little Son she has, a lusty Boy,The darling of her guiltless, mourning heart,The only dear and gay associateOf her lone widowhood. His sun-burnt cheekIs never blanch'd with fear, though he will climbThe broad oak's branches, and with brawny armSever the limpid wave. In his blue eyeBeams all his mother's gentleness of soul;While his brave father's warm intrepid heartThrobs in his infant bosom. 'Tis a wightMost valourous, yet pliant as the stemOf the low vale-born lily, when the dewPresses its perfum'd head. Eight years his voiceHas chear'd the homely hut, for he could lispSoft words of filial fondness, ere his feetCould measure the smooth path-way.On the hillsHe watches the wide waste of wavy greenTissued with orient lustre, till his eyesAche with the dazzling splendour, and the main,Rolling and blazing, seems a second Sun !And, if a distant whitening sail appears,Skimming the bright horizon while the mastIs canopied with clouds of dappled gold,He homeward hastes rejoicing. An old TreeIs his lone watch-tow'r; 'tis a blasted OakWhich, from a vagrant Acorn, ages past,Sprang up, to triumph like a Savage boldBraving the Season's warfare. There he sitsSilent and musing the long Evening hour,'Till the short reign of Sunny splendour fadesAt the cold touch of twilight. Oft he sings;Or from his oaten pipe, untiring poursThe tune mellifluous which his father sung,When HE could only listen.On the sandsThat bind the level sea-shore, will he stray,When morn unlocks the East, and flings afarThe rosy day-beam ! There the boy will stopTo gather the dank weeds which ocean leavesOn the bleak strand, while winter o'er the mainHowls its nocturnal clamour. There againHe chaunts his Father's ditty. Never morePoor mountain minstrel, shall thy bosom throbTo the sweet cadence ! never more thy tearFall as the dulcet breathings give each wordExpression magical ! Thy Father, Boy,Sleeps on the bed of death ! His tongue is mute,His fingers have forgot their pliant art,His oaten pipe will ne'er again be heardEchoing along the valley ! Never moreWill thy fond mother meet the balmy smileOf peace domestic, or the circling armOf valour, temper'd by the milder joysOf rural merriment. His very nameIs now forgotten! for no trophied tombTells of his bold exploits; such heraldryBefits not humble worth: For pomp and praiseWait in the gilded palaces of PrideTo dress Ambition's Slaves. Yet, on his grave,The unmark'd resting place of Valour's Sons,The morning beam shines lust'rous; The meek flow'rStill drops the twilight tear, and the night breezeMoans melancholy music!Then, to ME,O ! dearer far is the poor Soldier's grave,The Widow's lone and unregarded Cot,The brawling Brook, and the wide Alder-bough,The ozier Canopy, and plumy choir,Hymning the Morn's return, than the rich DomeOf gilded Palaces ! and sweeter far--O! far more graceful ! far more exquisite,The Widow's tear bathing the living rose,Than the rich ruby, blushing on the breast,Of guilty greatness. Welcome then to me--The WIDOW'S LOWLY HOME : The Soldier's HEIR;The proud inheritor of Heav'n's best gifts--The mind unshackled--and the guiltless Soul!