It used to be a
pleasant sight when Wordsworth was seen in the middle of a hedge,
cutting switches for half a dozen children, who were pulling at his
cloak, or gathering about his heels; and it will long be pleasant to
family friends to hear how the young wives of half a century learned to
make home comfortable by the example of the good housewife at the Mount,
who never was above letting her thrift be known.
Finally, she who had noted so many last survivors was herself the last
of a company more venerable than eagles, or ravens, or old-world yeomen,
or antique customs. She would not, in any case, be the first forgotten.
As it is, her honored name will live for generations in the traditions
of the valleys round. If she was studied as the poet's wife, she came
out so well from that investigation that she was contemplated for
herself; and the image so received is her true monument. It will be
better preserved in her old-fashioned neighborhood than many monuments
which make a greater show.
"She was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely apparition, sent
To he a moment's ornament;
Her eyes, as stars of twilight fair;
Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful dawn;
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
* * * * *
And now I see, with eye serene,
The very pulse of the machine;
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveler between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a spirit still and bright,
With something of an angel light.
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