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.
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
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?"
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
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.
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.
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, -
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,
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