That smail, for flax; and if one wheel had rest, The Pair had but one inmate in their house, An only child, who had been born to them Made all their household. I may truly say, That they were as a proverb in the Vale The son and father were come home, even then And their plain home made cheese. Yet when their meal Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge, Large space beneath, as duly as the light Of day grow dim, the Housewife hung a lamp; Surviving comrade of uncounted hours, And left the couple neither gay perhaps Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes, And now, when Luke was in his eighteenth year, The thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced, Stood single, with large prospect, north and south, And westward to the village near the lake; And from this constant light, so regular And so far seen, the house itself, by all Who dwelt within the limits of the Vale, 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— Effect which might perhaps have been produced By that instinctive tenderness, the same Blind spirit which is in the blood of all Or that a child, more than all other gifts, Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts, And stirrings of inquietude, when they By tendency of nature needs must fail. From such, and other causes, to the thoughts Of the old man his only son was now The dearest object that he knew on earth. His heart and his heart's joy! For oftentimes Had done him female service, not alone And, in a later time, ere yet the boy To have the young one in his sight, when he There, while they two were sitting in the shade, 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 hooped With iron, making it throughout in all At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock; There stood the urchin, as you will divine, 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 seemed born again? 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 pressed upon him,—and old Michael now Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture, A grievous penalty, but little less Than half his substance. This unlooked-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 gathered so much strength |