Peter's Unsung Spheres

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 ! 

The Literary gazette, 5th July 1823