"Not twenty years ago, but you I think 535 Can scarcely bear it now in mind, there came Two blighting seasons, when the fields were left With half a harvest. It pleased Heaven to add A worse affliction in the plague of war: This happy Land was stricken to the heart! 540 A Wanderer then among the cottages, I, with my freight of winter raiment, saw The hardships of that season: many rich Sank down, as in a dream, among the poor; And of the poor did many cease to be, 545 And their place knew them not.[AX] Meanwhile, abridged Of daily comforts, gladly reconciled To numerous self-denials, Margaret Went struggling on through those calamitous years With cheerful hope, until the second autumn, 550 When her life's Helpmate on a sick-bed lay,[64] Smitten with perilous fever. In disease He lingered long; and, when his strength returned, He found the little he had stored, to meet The hour of accident or crippling age, 555 Was all consumed. A second infant now Was added to the troubles of a time Laden, for them and all of their degree, With care and sorrow: shoals of artisans From ill-requited labour turned adrift 560 Sought daily bread from public charity,[65] They, and their wives and children--happier far Could they have lived as do the little birds That peck along the hedge-rows, or the kite That makes her dwelling on the mountain rocks![66] 565 "A sad reverse it was for him who long Had filled with plenty, and possessed in peace, This lonely Cottage. At the door[67] he stood, And whistled many a snatch of merry tunes That had no mirth in them;[AY] or with his knife 570 Carved uncouth figures on the heads of sticks-- Then, not less idly, sought, through every nook In house or garden, any casual work Of use or ornament; and with a strange, Amusing, yet uneasy, novelty, 575 He mingled,[68] where he might, the various tasks Of summer, autumn, winter, and of spring. But this endured not; his good humour soon Became a weight in which no pleasure was: And poverty brought on a petted mood 580 And a sore temper: day by day he drooped, And he would leave his work--and to the town Would turn without an errand his slack steps;[69] Or wander here and there among the fields. One while he would speak lightly of his babes, 585 And with a cruel tongue; at other times He tossed them with a false unnatural joy: And 'twas a rueful thing to see the looks Of the poor innocent children. 'Every smile,' Said Margaret to me, here beneath these trees, 590 'Made my heart bleed.'"