Landon in The Literary Gazette 1823/Tale of Fact
Literary Gazette, 5th July 1823, Page 427-428
ORIGINAL POETRY.
A TALE FOUNDED ON FACT.
There is a little Vale, made beautiful
By its blue gliding river, and its fields
Of tall green grass, wherein the lark has built
Her little ones a nest; its orchards hung
With crimson fruit, cherries like Beauty's lip.
And apples like her cheek; and more than all,
Its lowly cottages, with their thatched roofs
No higher than the wilding rose can reach:—
There seems so much of quiet happiness
In the white walls o'er which the honeysuckle
Has wandered in its sweetness, and above
The door has formed a porch, mixing its white
And pink veined bunches with the scarlet flowers
And broad leaves of the bean! A little raised
From the ascending ground, is one that stands
Close to the rest, yet different from them all,—
For it is desolate!—the honeysuckle
Darkens the broken lattices with boughs
Heavy with unpruned leaves; the summer stock
In the small garden of the flowers and fruit,
Is trodden down and wasted, and the weeds
Are many, like the evils of this world;
The stool, where yet the straw hive stands, is left,
Deserted by the bees, for the bindweed
Has choked the entrance with its matted leaves
And cold pale blossoms. - - - It is Autumn now,
And all the trees are loaded; saving one,
Which stands with neither foliage, fruit, nor flowers,
Leafless and lifeless. And beside its trunk
There sits a pallid Boy, with thin white lips,
And, spectre-like, his hand is on a Dog
As meagre as himself, the only thing
That he will let to share his solitude.
This was not always so;—when the last Spring
Gave her first kiss to Summer, there were none
More happy than his Father and that Boy,—
He had a Father then! and there was not
A neater cottage, or a garden where
Were fruit or flowers more plenty, in the vale.
They were not poor;—can that be poverty
Where each day brings its own? there is no food
Like that ourselves have gained, no sleep like that
Which is the rest of labour. It was worth
A day of toil to sit, as they would sit,
Through the long winter evenings, by a fire
Less bright than the glad face of the fair Child
Who sat beside his Father, listening
With eager eyes to the strange tales which he,
A sailor in his youth, could tell; or else,
In gentler tones, heard how his Mother died
The very day that first he lisped her name.
And yet more pleasant on a summer eve
To sit in the cool shade of their own door,
While Edward, quite forgetful of how tired
He had been in the morning, would start up
And join and win his young companions' race,
His Father watching, proud of each fleet step.
They never seemed apart, for Edward was
His own dear parent's shadow—labour was
A pleasure by his side; and oftentimes
He would leave all his sports, and fondly steal
To his most happy Father, whose whole life
Was centered but in his. There is no tie
Like that last holiest link of love, which binds
The lonely child to its more lonely parent.
One day young Edward sought the neighbouring town,
With charge and promise of a swift return;
And when the sunshine of a July noon
Fell hot upon the earth, his Father left
His solitary labour; the blue sky
Was darkened with a shadow, and the air
Weighed heavy on the brow, and made breath pain,
He entered the low cottage to prepare
Their meal for his tired boy, when suddenly
He heard a sound of thunder from the hills
Roll o'er the valley; looking out, he saw
A black cloud on the sun. While yet he gazed,
Like an imprisoned spirit bursting forth,
Swept a blue flood of lightning o'er the sky.
His Edward—where was Edward? out he rushed—
Looked wistfully to the low garden gate,—
Shouted—then listened—till the heavy peal
Echoed him as in mockery. On a rise,
The limit of his little garden's stretch,
There stood a cherry-tree, now rich with fruit,—
It overlooked the land for miles around,
And from its branches he could see the path
Down which his child must come. He climbed the tree,
But never looked around; the bolt came down
And struck him in its anger,—he lay dead!—
The storm sank into silence, and the Boy,
Drenched, but unharmed, came home;—with one light bound,
Youth, health and happiness step on the wind,
He sprang beneath the porch. Was it surprise,
Or fear, or augury, that made him turn
Pale unto sickness as he looked around?
The cottage was quite empty, yet the door
Was open wide, the rain had washed the floor,
The dinner lay untouched, and on the hearth
The embers had burnt out; and, stranger still,
His Father's hat hung up. And Edward cried
Aloud in agony, and a long howl
Answered him from the garden, and he ran,
Led by the sound,—it was his dog had found
His master's corpse, and Edward knew his father.
Dim night fell round the boy,—hope, joy, love, fear,
And every other sense but memory, fled,
And that chained like a prisoner to one thought.
He spoke not, and knew no one,—took no food
Till natural hunger made him ravenous,
And then he ate unthankfully, and showed
No sign of notice to the hand which fed.
He staid beneath that tree thro' heat, thro' cold;
For, from the hour he saw his father dead,
He was an idiot! L. E. L.