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no edit summary
| item = 1
| item = 1
| type = poem
| type = poem
| status = wanted
| status = ok
| continues =
| continues =
| author = A.F.
| author = A.F.
| title = The Ruined Cottage
| title = The Ruined Cottage
| subtitle = New Hampshire Hills
| subtitle = (New Hampshire Hills)
| untitled =
| untitled =
| source title =
| source title = Harper's New Monthly Magazine
| source details =
| source details = p.51
| publication date =
| publication date =
| original date =
| original date =
| notes =
| notes = Original text on [https://archive.org/stream/harpersnew51various#page/50/mode/2up Archive.org]
| categories =
| categories =
}}
}}
...
{{Style P-Poem|poem=At night-fall, coming through the wood.
: We reached a hill-top’s gloomy brow,
Where one unpainted cottage stood,
: Neglected, dark, and low.
No lamp announced a living soul;
: The chimney’s blue, reluctant thread
Alone betrayed a burning coal
: Of life where all seemed dead.
Until, observing curiously,
: And gazing back as on we went,
One little pale face we could see
: Close to the window bent.
When late we reached the village street.
: Cheerful and twinkling here and there,
The house-dog ran to lick our feet—
: Sweet was the household air!
Yet in my mind I saw all night
: That child’s face watching by the pane,
And passed once more that weary way,
: And lingered there again.
At dawn I rose, and walking forth,
: Met one who toiled upon the road,
Morning or evening nothing loath
: With talk to ease time’s load.
He knew the young man once, he said,
: Who brought his wife home to that farm ;
Now all his decency is dead,
: And devils round him swarm.
For he would drink when morning came,
: And drink before the noon was past,
And afternoons were all the same,
: Long as his means would last.
Master of numerous herds was he;
: All gone, his endless thirst to feed.
His wife—ah! weary days had she,
: And bitter grew her need.
Now she will have no trouble more ;
: Her griefs have all been laid to sleep ;
But devils round his chamber floor
: Their endless dances keep.
He hardly lifts his heavy head ;
: He lies in wretchedness all day ;
And when the night comes, it is said,
: Begins the devils’ play.
“Were there no children?” I inquired,
: And shuddered as I spoke the words,
While two young maidens, health-inspired,
: Went singing by like birds.
Ah, yes! Alas! one little girl.
: I wonder where the child is now ?
He, drowned in such a dreadful whirl,
: Can not much further go.
The morning sun was brave and gay,
: And birds were filling earth with song.
While still my heart repassed that way,
: That rocky hill of wrong.
Still sits the child beside the pane,
: And gazes on the clouded sky ;
Her solitude is mine again,
: And mine her agony.
{{Style P-Align right|A.F.}}}}
{{HPB-SB-item
{{HPB-SB-item
| volume = 3
| volume = 3
| notes =
| notes =
| categories =
| categories =
| hide = yes
| hide =
}}
}}
{{HPB-SB-item
{{HPB-SB-item
| page = 79
| page = 79
| item =3
| item =3
| type = article
| type = image
| file =
| status = wanted
| status = wanted
| author =
| author =
| title =Irdhi–Pada
| title =
| untitled = yes
| untitled =
| notes = Bay with many sailers парусник
| notes =
| categories =
| categories =
| hide = yes
}}
}}
{{HPB-SB-item
{{HPB-SB-item
| page = 79
| page = 79
| item =4
| item =4
| type = image
| type = article
| status = wanted
| status = wanted
| continues = 80
| author =
| author =
| title =
| title = Irdhi-Pada
| untitled = yes
| subtitle = The “Divine Foot” or Power of Instant Locomotion Through the Air, from Place to Place
| notes =
| untitled =
| source title =
| source details =
| publication date =
| original date =
| notes = From the London Spiritualist
| categories =
| categories =
}}
}}
...
{{Style S-HPB SB. Continues on | 3-80}}