34

WORDSWORTH.

Thus living on through such a length of years,
The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs
Have loved his Helpmate; but to Michael's heart
This son of his old age was yet more dear,—
Less from instinctive tenderness, the same
Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all,
Than that a child, more than all other gifts
That Earth can offer to declining man,
Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts,
And stirrings of inquietude, when they
By tendency of nature needs must fail.
Exceeding was the love he bare to him,
His heart and his heart's joy! For oftentimes
Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms,
Had done him female service, not alone
For pastime and delight, as is the use
Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced
To acts of tenderness; and he had rock'd
His cradle, as with a woman's gentle hand.
And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy
Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love,
Albeit of a stern unbending mind,

To have the Young-one in his sight, when he
Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd's stool
Sate with a fetter'd sheep before him stretch'd
Under the large old oak, that near his door
Stood single, and, from matchless depth of shade,
Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the Sun,
Thence in our rustic dialect was call'd

The CLIPPING-TREE; a name which yet it bears.
There, while they two were sitting in the shade,
With others round them, earnest all and blithe,
Would Michael exercise his heart with looks
Of fond correction and reproof bestow'd
Upon the Child, if he disturb'd the sheep
By catching at their legs, or with his shouts

Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears.
And when by Heaven's good grace the boy grew up

A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek

Two steady roses that were five years old;
Then Michael from a winter coppice cut

With his own hand a sapling, which he hoop'd
With iron, making it throughout in all
Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff,
And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipt

4 Clipping is used in the North of England for shearing.

MICHAEL.

He as a watchman oftentimes was placed
At gate or gap to stem or turn the flock;
And, to his office prematurely call'd,
There stood the urchin, as you will divine,
Something between a hindrance and a help;
And for this cause not always, I believe,
Receiving from his Father hire of praise;

Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice,
Or looks, or threatening gestures could perform.
But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand
Against the mountain blasts; and to the heights,
Not fearing toil nor length of weary ways,
He with his Father daily went, and they
Were as companions, why should I relate
That objects which the Shepherd loved before
Were dearer now? that from the Boy there came
Feelings and emanations, things which were
Light to the Sun and music to the wind;

And that the old Man's heart seem'd born again?
Thus in his Father's sight the Boy grew up:
And now, when he had reach'd his eighteenth year,
He was his comfort and his daily hope.

While in this sort the simple household lived
From day to day, to Michael's ear there came
Distressful tidings. Long before the time
Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound
In surety for his brother's son, a man
Of an industrious life and ample means;

But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly

Had prest upon him; and old Michael now
Was summon'd to discharge the forfeiture,

A grievous penalty, but little less

Than half his substance. This unlook'd-for claim,
At the first hearing, for a moment took

More hope out of his life than he supposed

That any old man ever could have lost.

As soon as he had arm'd himself with strength
To look his trouble in the face, it seem'd
The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at once
A portion of his patrimonial fields.

Such was his first resolve; he thought again,
And his heart fail'd him. "Isabel," said he,
Two evenings after he had heard the news,
"I have been toiling more than seventy years,
And in the open sunshine of God's love

35

36

WORDSWORTH.

Should pass into a stranger's hand, I think
That I could not lie quiet in my grave.
Our lot is a hard lot; the Sun himself
Has scarcely been more diligent than I;
And I have lived to be a fool at last
To my own family. An evil man
That was, and made an evil choice, if he
Were false to us; and if he were not false,
There are ten thousand to whom loss like this

Had been no sorrow. I forgive him; - but

"Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus.
When I began, my purpose was to speak
Of remedies and of a cheerful hope.
Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land
Shall not go from us, and it shall be free;
He shall possess it, free as is the wind
That passes over it. We have, thou know'st,
Another kinsman, - he will be our friend
In this distress. He is a prosperous man,
Thriving in trade; and Luke to him shall go,
And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift
He quickly will repair this loss, and then
He may return to us. If here he stay,
What can be done? Where every one is
What can be gain'd?"

poor,

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 halfpennies, 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 birth-place, 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.

MICHAEL.

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 last two 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.

With daylight Isabel resumed her work;
And all the ensuing week the house appear'd
As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at length
Th' 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 forth with
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.

37

督

Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,
In that deep valley, Michael had design'd

To build a Sheep-fold; 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 touch
On things thou canst not know of.
First cam'st into the world, -

After thou

as oft 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 fire-side
First uttering, without words, a natural tune;
While 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,