And on the rose-beds threw a softening shade. The mother sat beside the garden-door, Dress’d as in times ere she and hers were poor; 420 The broad-laced cap was known in ancient days, When madam’s dress compell’d the village praise; And still she look’d as in the times of old, Ere his last farm the erring husband sold; While yet the mansion stood in decent state, And paupers waited at the well-known gate. “Alas! my son!” the mother cried, “and why That silent grief and oft-repeated sigh? True, we are poor, but thou hast never felt Pangs to thy father for his error dealt; 430 Pangs from strong hopes of visionary gain, For ever raised, and ever found in vain. He rose unhappy! from his fruitless schemes, As guilty wretches from their blissful dreams; But thou wert then, my son, a playful child, Wondering at grief, gay, innocent, and wild; Listening at times to thy poor mother’s sighs, With curious looks and innocent surprise; Thy father dying, thou, my virtuous boy, My comfort always, waked my soul to joy; 440 With the poor remnant of our fortune left, Thou hast our station of its gloom bereft: Thy lively temper, and thy cheerful air, Have cast a smile on sadness and despair; Thy active hand has dealt to this poor space The bliss of plenty and the charm of grace; And all around us wonder when they find Such taste and strength, such skill and power combined; There is no mother, Colin, no not one, But envies me so kind, so good a son; 450 By thee supported on this failing side, Weakness itself awakes a parent’s pride; I bless the stroke that was my grief before, And feel such joy that ’tis disease no more; Shielded by thee, my want becomes my wealth-- And, soothed by Colin, sickness smiles at health; The old men love thee, they repeat thy praise, And say, like thee were youth in earlier days; While every village-maiden cries, ’How gay, How smart, how brave, how good is Colin Grey!’ 460 “Yet art thou sad; alas! my son, I know Thy heart is wounded, and the cure is slow; Fain would I think that Jesse still may come To share the comforts of our rustic home: She surely loved thee; I have seen the maid, When thou hast kindly brought the vicar aid-- When thou hast eased his bosom of its pain, Oh! I have seen her--she will come again.” The matron ceased; and Colin stood the while Silent, but striving for a grateful smile; 470 He then replied--“Ah! sure, had Jesse stay’d, And shared the comforts of our sylvan shade, The tenderest duty and the fondest love Would not have fail’d that generous heart to move; A grateful pity would have ruled her breast, And my distresses would have made me blest.