Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1823.pdf/152



It was a slip from that which grew beside The cottage, once her own, which ever drew Praise from each passer down the shadowy lane Where her home stood—the home where yet she thought To end her days in peace: that was the hope That made life pleasant, and it had been fed By the so ardent spirits of her Boy, Who said that God would bless the efforts made For his old mother.—Like a holiday Each Sunday came, for then her patient way She took to the white church of her own village, A long five miles; and many marvelled one So aged, so feeble, still should seek that church. They knew not how delicious the fresh air, How fair the green leaves and the fields, how glad The sunshine of the country, to the eyes That looked so seldom on them. She would sit Long after Service on a grave, and watch The cattle as they grazed, the yellow corn, The lane where yet her home might be; and then Return with lightened heart to her dull street, Refreshed with hope and pleasant memories,— Listen with anxious ear to the conch shell, Wherein they say the rolling of the sea Is heard distinct, pray for her absent child, Bless him, then dream of him.--- A shout awoke the sleeping Town, the night