Things needful for the journey of her son. But Isabel was glad when Sunday came
To stop her in her work: for, when she lay By Michael's side, she through the two last nights Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep: And when they rose at morning she could see That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon She said to Luke, while they two by themselves Were sitting at the door, "Thou must not go : We have no other child but thee to lose, None to remember-do not go away, For if thou leave thy father he will die." The youth made answer with a jocund voice; And Isabel, when she had told her fears, Recovered heart. That evening her best fare Did she bring forth, and all together sat Like happy people round a Christmas fire.
Next morning Isabel resumed her work; And all the ensuing week the house appeared As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at length The expected letter from their kinsman came, With kind assurances that he would do His utmost for the welfare of the boy; To which requests were added that forthwith He might be sent to him. Ten times or more The letter was read over; Isabel Went forth to show it to the neighbours round; Nor was there at that time on English land A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel Had to her house returned, the old man said, "He shall depart to-morrow." To this word The housewife answered, talking much of things Which, if at such short notice he should go, Would surely be forgotten. But at length She gave consent, and Michael was at ease.
Near the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll, In that deep valley, Michael had designed To build a sheepfold; and, before he heard The tidings of his melancholy loss, For this same purpose he had gathered up A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge Lay thrown together, ready for the work. With Luke that evening thitherward he walked; And soon as they had reached the place he stopped, And thus the old man spake to him:-" My son, To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full heart I look upon thee, for thou art the same That wert a promise to me ere thy birth, And all thy life hast been my daily joy. I will relate to thee some little part Of our two histories; 'twill do thee good When thou art from me, even if I should speak
Of things thou canst not know of. After thou First cam'st into the world-as it befals
To new-born infants-thou didst sleep away Two days, and blessings from thy father's tongue Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on, And still I loved thee with increasing love. Never to living ear came sweeter sounds Than when I heard thee by our own fireside First uttering, without words, a natural tune; When thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy Sing at thy mother's breast. Month followed month And in the open fields my life was passed And on the mountains, else I think that thou Hadst been brought up upon thy father's knees. But we were playmates, Luke: among these hills, As well thou know'st, in us the old and young Have played together, nor with me didst thou Lack any pleasure which a boy can know." Luke had a manly heart; but at these words He sobbed aloud. The old man grasped his hand, And said, "Nay, do not take it so I see That these are things of which I need not speak. -Even to the utmost I have been to thee
A kind and a good father and herein
I but repay a gift which I myself
Received at other's hands; for, though now old Beyond the common life of man, I still
Remember them who loved me in my youth. Both of them sleep together: here they lived, As all their forefathers had done; and when At length their time was come, they were not loth
To give their bodies to the family mold.
I wished that thou shouldst live the life they lived.
But 'tis a long time to look back, my son,
And see so little gain from sixty years.
These fields were burthened when they came to me; Till I was forty years of age, not more
Than half of my inheritence was mine.
I toiled and toiled; God blessed me in my work, And till these three weeks past the land was free. -It looks as if it never could endure
Another master. Heaven forgive me, Luke,
If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good
That thou shouldst go." At this the old man paus'd Then, pointing to the stones near which they stood, Thus, after a short silence, he resumed:
"This was a work for us; and now, my son,
It is a work for me. But, lay one stone
Here, lay it for me, Luke, with thine own hands. Nay, boy, be of good hope-we both may live To see a better day. At eighty-four
I still am strong and stout;-do thou thy part,
I will do mine.-I will begin again
With many tasks that were resigned to thee;
Up to the heights, and in among the storms, Will I without thee go again, and do All works which I was wont to do alone, Before I knew thy face. -Heaven bless thee, boy! Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fast With many hopes-It should be so-Yes-yes- I knew that thou couldst never have a wish To leave me, Luke: thou hast been bound to me Only by links of love: when thou art gone, What will be left to us -But, I forget My purposes. Lay now the corner-stone, As I requested; and hereafter, Luke, When thou art gone away, should evil men Be thy companions, think of me, my son, And of this moment; hither turn thy thoughts, And God will strengthen thee: amid all fear And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou Mayst bear in mind the life thy fathers lived, Who, being innocent, did for that cause Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well- When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt see
A work which is not here: a covenant
"Twill be between us- -But, whatever fate
Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last,
And bear thy memory with me to the grave."
The shepherd ended here; and Luke stooped down, And, as his father had requested, laid
The first stone of the sheepfold. At the sight
The old man's grief broke from him, to his heart
He pressed his son, he kissed him and wept;
And to the house together they returned
-Hushed was that house in peace, or seeming peace, Ere the night fell-with morrow's dawn the boy Began his journey, and when he had reached
The public way, he put on a bold face;
And all the neighbours as he passed their doors Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers, That followed him till he was out of sight.
A good report did from their kinsman come, Of Luke and his well-doing: and the boy Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news,
Which, as the housewife phrased it, were throughout "The prettiest letters that were ever seen." Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts. So, many months passed on: and once again
The shepherd went about his daily work
With confident and cheerful thoughts; and now Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour He to that valley took his way, and there
Wrought at the sheepfold. Meantime Luke began To slacken in his duty; and at length He in the dissolute city gave himself
To evil courses: ignominy and shame
Fell on him, so that he was driven at last To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas. There is a comfort in the strength of love; "Twill make a thing endurable, which else Would break the heart:-old Michael found it so. I have conversed with more than one who well Remembered the old man, and what he was Years after he had heard this heavy news. His bodily frame had been from youth to age Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks He went, and still looked up upon the sun, And listened to the wind; and as before Performed all kinds of labour for his sheep, And for the land his small inheritance. And to that hollow dell from time to time Did he repair, to build the fold of which His flock had need. "Tis not forgotten yet The pity which was then in every heart For the old man-and 'tis believed by all That many and many a day he thither went, And never lifted up a single stone.
There, by the sheepfold, sometimes was he seen Sitting alone, with that his faithful dog, Then old, beside him, lying at his feet.
The length of full seven years from time to time He at the building of this sheepfold wrought, And left the work unfinished when he died. Three years, or little more, did Isabel
Survive her husband: at her death the estate
Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand.
The cottage which was named The EVENING STAR
Is gone the ploughshare has been through the ground On which it stood; great changes have been wrought In all the neighbourhood:-yet the oak is left That grew beside their door; and the remains Of the unfinished sheepfold may be seen
Beside the boisterous brook of Greenhead Ghyll.
TO THE DAISY.
IN youth from rock to rock I went, From hill to hill, in discontent Of pleasure high and turbulent,
Most pleased when most uneasy; But now my own delights I make,- My thirst at every rill can slake, And gladly Nature's love partake Of thee, sweet Daisy !
When soothed a while by milder airs, Thee Winter in the garland wears That thinly shades his few grey hairs; Spring cannot shun thee;
Whole Summer fields are thine by right; And Autumn, melancholy wight! Doth in thy crimson head delight When rains are on thee.
In shoals and bands, a morrice train, Thou greet'st the traveller in the lane; If welcomed once thou count'st it gain; Thou art not daunted,
Nor car'st if thou be set at naught:
And oft alone in nooks remote
We meet thee, like a pleasant thought, When such are wanted.
Be violets in their secret mews
The flowers the wanton zephyrs choose; Proud be the rose, with rains and dewS Her head impearling;
Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, Yet hast not gone without thy fame; Thou art indeed by many a claim The poet's darling.
If to a rock from rains he fly, Or, some bright day of April sky, Imprisoned by hot sunshine lie
Near the green holly,
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