He quickly will repair this loss, and then May come again to us. If here he stay,
What can be done? Where every one is poor, What can be gained?" At this the old man paused, And Isabel sat silent, for her mind
Was busy, looking back into past times.
"There's Richard Bateman," thought she to herself, "He was a parish-boy-at the church-door
They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence, And half-pennies, wherewith the neighbours bought A basket, which they fill'd with pedlar's wares; And with this basket on his arm, the lad Went up to London, found a master there, Who out of many chose the trusty boy Το go and overlook his merchandise
Beyond the seas, where he grew wondrous rich, And left estates and moneys to the poor, And at his birthplace built a chapel floor'd With marble, which he sent from foreign lands." These thoughts, and many others of like sort, Pass'd quickly through the mind of Isabel, And her face brighten'd. The old man was glad, And thus resumed: "Well, Isabel, this scheme These two days has been meat and drink to me. Far more than we have lost is left us yet.
-We have enough-I wish indeed that I Were younger, but this hope is a good hope. Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best Buy for him more, and let us send him forth To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night: -If he could go, the boy should go to-night." Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth With a light heart. The housewife for five days Was restless morn and night, and all day long Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare 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, Recover'd 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 appear'd 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 return'd, the old man said, "He shall depart to-morrow." To this word The housewife answer'd, 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 design'd To build a sheepfold; and, before he heard The tidings of his melancholy loss,
For this same purpose he had gather'd up A heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edge Lay thrown together, ready for the work. With Luke that evening thitherward he walk'd; And soon as they had reach'd the place he stopp'd, 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.
First cam'st into the world-as it befalls
To new-born infants-thou didst sleep away
Two days, and blessings from thy father's tongue Then fell upon thee. Day by day pass'd 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 follow'd month, And in the open fields my life was pass'd, 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 play'd together, nor with me didst thou Lack any pleasure which a boy can know." Luke had a manly heart; but at these words
He sobb'd aloud. The old man grasp'd 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 others' 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 mould.
I wish'd 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 burthen'd when they came to me; Till I was forty years of age, not more
Than half of my inheritance was mine.
I toil'd and toil'd; God bless'd 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 paused; 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 resign'd 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 stoop'd 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 press'd his son, he kissed him and wept ; And to the house together they return'd
-Hush'd 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 reach'd The public way, he put on a bold face;
And all the neighbours as he pass'd their doors Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers, That follow'd 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 pass'd 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 Remember'd 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 look'd up upon the sun, And listen'd to the wind; and as before Perform'd 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 unfinish'd when he died. Three years, or little more, did Isabel
Survive her husband: at her death th' 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 unfinish'd sheepfold may be seen
Beside the boist'rous brook of Greenhead Ghyll.
"WITH sacrifice, before the rising morn Perform'd, my slaughter'd lord have I required; And in thick darkness, amid shades forlorn, Him of the infernal gods have I desired: Celestial pity I again implore ;—
Restore him to my sight, great Jove, restore !"
So speaking, and by fervent love endow'd
With faith, the suppliant heavenward lifts her hands; While, like the sun emerging from a cloud,
Her countenance brightens-and her eye expands, Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows, And she expects the issue in repose.
O terror! what hath she perceived? O joy! What doth she look on-whom doth she behold? Her hero slain upon the beach of Troy? His vital presence-his corporeal mould? It is if sense deceive her not-'tis he!
And a god leads him--winged Mercury!
Mild Hermes spake, and touch'd her with his wand
That calms all fear: "Such grace hath crown'd thy prayer, Laodamia, that at Jove's command
Thy husband walks the paths of upper air:
He comes to tarry with thee three hours' Accept the gift; behold him face to face!"
Forth sprang the impassion'd queen her lord to clasp ; Again that consummation she essay'd; But unsubstantial form eludes her grasp
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