"Of brownyis and of bogilis full is this buke."Gawin Douglas.A Tale
When chapman billies[14]leave the street,And drouty[15]neebors, neebors meet,As market-days are wearing late,And folk begin to tak the gate[16];While we sit bousing at the nappy,[17]5And gettin' fou[18]and unco[19]happy,We think na on the lang Scots miles.The mosses, waters, slaps[20]and styles,That lie between us and our hame,Where sits our sulky sullen dame,10Gathering her brows like gathering storm,Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,As he frae[21]Ayr[22]ae night did canter,(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses15For honest men and bonny lasses.)O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise,As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice!She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum,[23]A blethering,[24]blustering, drunken blellum[25];20That frae November till October,Ae market-day thou wasna sober;That ilka[26]melder,[27]wi' the miller,Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;That every naig was ca'd[28]a shoe on,25The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday,Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday.She prophesied that, late or soon,Thou would be found deep drowned in Doon,[29]30Or catched wi' warlocks[30]in the mirk,[31]By Alloway's[32]auld haunted kirk.[33]Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,[34]To think how monie counsels sweet,How monie lengthened sage advices,35The husband frae the wife despises!But to our tale:—Ae market-night,Tam had got planted[35]unco right,Fast by an ingle,[36]bleezing finely,Wi' reaming swats,[37]that drank divinely;40And at his elbow, Souter[38]Johnny,His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony;Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither—They had been fou for weeks thegither!The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter,45And aye the ale was growing better;The landlady and Tam grew gracious,Wi' favors secret, sweet, and precious;The souter tauld his queerest stories,The landlord's laugh was ready chorus;50The storm without might rair and rustle—Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.Care, mad to see a man sae happy,E'en drowned himself amang the nappy!As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,55The minutes winged their way wi' pleasure:Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,O'er a' the ills o' life victorious.But pleasures are like poppies spread,—You seize the flower, its bloom is shed;60Or like the snowfall in the river,—A moment white—then melts forever;Or like the borealis race,That flit ere you can point their place;Or like the rainbow's lovely form,65Evanishing amid the storm.Nae man can tether time or tide;The hour approaches Tam maun[39]ride:That hour, o' night's black arch the keystane,That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;70And sic a night he taks the road inAs ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;The rattling showers rose on the blast;The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed;75Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellowed:That night, a child might understand,The Deil[40]had business on his hand.Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg,(A better never lifted leg,)80Tam skelpit[41]on through dub[42]and mire,Despising wind, and rain, and fire;Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet,Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet;Whiles glowering round wi' prudent cares,85Lest bogles[43]catch him unawares:—Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,Where ghaists and houlets[44]nightly cry.By this time he was cross the ford,Where in the snaw the chapman smoored[45];90And past the birks[46]and meikle stane,[47]Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane;And through the whins,[48]and by the cairn,[49]Where hunters fand the murdered bairn[50];And near the thorn, aboon the well,95Where Mungo's mither hanged hersel'.Before him Doon pours all his floods;The doubling storm roars through the woods;The lightnings flash from pole to pole;Near and more near the thunders roll;100When, glimmering through the groaning trees,Kirk-Alloway seemed in a bleeze[51];Through ilka bore[52]the beams were glancing,And loud resounded mirth and dancing.Inspiring bold John Barleycorn,[53]105What dangers thou canst make us scorn!Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil;Wi' usquebae,[54]we'll face the devil!—The swats sae reamed in Tammie's noddle,Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle.[55]110But Maggie stood right sair astonished,Till, by the heel and hand admonished,She ventured forward on the light;And, vow! Tam saw an unco sight!Warlocks and witches in a dance;115Nae cotillion brent[56]new frae France,But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys,[57]and reels,Put life and mettle in their heels.A winnock-bunker[58]in the east,There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;120A towzie tyke,[59]black, grim, and large,To gie them music was his charge;He screwed the pipes and gart them skirl,[60]Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.[61]Coffins stood round, like open presses,125That shawed the dead in their last dresses;And by some devilish cantrip slight[62]Each in its cauld hand held a light:By which heroic Tam was ableTo note upon the haly table,130A murderer's banes in gibbet airns;Twa span-lang, wee unchristened bairns;A thief, new-cutted frae the rape,Wi' his last gasp his gab[63]did gape;Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted;135Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted;A garter which a babe had strangled;A knife, a father's throat had mangled,Whom his ain son o' life bereft,—The gray hairs yet stack to the heft:140Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu',Which even to name wad be unlawfu'!As Tammie glow'red, amazed and curious,The mirth and fun grew fast and furious;The piper loud and louder blew;145The dancers quick and quicker flew;They reeled, they set, they crossed, they cleekit,[64]Till ilka carlin[65]swat and reekit,And coost her duddies[66]to the wark,And linket[67]at it in her sark[68]!150Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans,[69]A' plump and strappin' in their teens;Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen,[70]Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder linen[71]!Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair,155That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair,I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies,[72]For ae blink o' the bonny burdies[73]!But withered beldams,[74]auld and drollRigwooddie[75]hags wad spean[76]a foal,160Louping and flinging on a cummock,[77]I wonder didna turn thy stomach.But Tam kenned what was what fu' brawlie[78];There was ae winsome wench and walie,[79]That night enlisted in the core,[80]165(Lang after kenned on Carrick shore;For monie a beast to dead she shot,And perished monie a bonny boat,And shook baith meikle corn and bear,[81]And kept the country-side in fear.)170Her cutty-sark,[82]o' Paisley harn,[83]That while a lassie she had won,In longitude though sorely scanty,It was her best, and she was vauntie.[84]Ah! little kenned thy reverend grannie175That sark she coft[85]for her wee Nannie,Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches),Wad ever graced a dance o' witches!But here my Muse her wing maun cour;Sic flights are far beyond her power;—180To sing how Nannie lap and flang[86](A souple jade she was, and strang),And how Tam stood like ane bewitched,And thought his very e'en[87]enriched:Even Satan glow'red and fidged fu' fain,[88]185And hotched[89]and blew wi' might and main:Till first ae caper, syne[90]anither,Tam tint[91]his reason a' thegither,And roars out: "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"And in an instant all was dark:190And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,When out the hellish legion sallied.As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,[92]When plundering herds assail their byke[93];As open poussie's mortal foes,195When, pop! she starts before their nose;As eager runs the market-crowd,When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;So Maggie runs, the witches follow,Wi' monie an eldritch[94]screech and hollow.200Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get they fairin'[95]!In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin'!In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin';Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,205And win the keystane o' the brig;There at them thou thy tail may toss,A running-stream they darena cross[96]!But ere the keystane she could make,The fient a tail she had to shake!210For Nannie, far before the rest,Hard upon noble Maggie prest,And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle,[97]—But little wist she Maggie's mettle!Ae spring brought off her master hale,215But left behind her ain gray tail:The carlin claught her by the rump,And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,Ilk man and mother's son, take heed!220Whene'er to drink you are inclined,Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear,—Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.
When chapman billies[14]leave the street,And drouty[15]neebors, neebors meet,As market-days are wearing late,And folk begin to tak the gate[16];While we sit bousing at the nappy,[17]5And gettin' fou[18]and unco[19]happy,We think na on the lang Scots miles.The mosses, waters, slaps[20]and styles,That lie between us and our hame,Where sits our sulky sullen dame,10Gathering her brows like gathering storm,Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,As he frae[21]Ayr[22]ae night did canter,(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses15For honest men and bonny lasses.)
O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise,As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice!She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum,[23]A blethering,[24]blustering, drunken blellum[25];20That frae November till October,Ae market-day thou wasna sober;That ilka[26]melder,[27]wi' the miller,Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;That every naig was ca'd[28]a shoe on,25The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday,Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday.She prophesied that, late or soon,Thou would be found deep drowned in Doon,[29]30Or catched wi' warlocks[30]in the mirk,[31]By Alloway's[32]auld haunted kirk.[33]
Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,[34]To think how monie counsels sweet,How monie lengthened sage advices,35The husband frae the wife despises!
But to our tale:—Ae market-night,Tam had got planted[35]unco right,Fast by an ingle,[36]bleezing finely,Wi' reaming swats,[37]that drank divinely;40And at his elbow, Souter[38]Johnny,His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony;Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither—They had been fou for weeks thegither!The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter,45And aye the ale was growing better;The landlady and Tam grew gracious,Wi' favors secret, sweet, and precious;The souter tauld his queerest stories,The landlord's laugh was ready chorus;50The storm without might rair and rustle—Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.
Care, mad to see a man sae happy,E'en drowned himself amang the nappy!As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,55The minutes winged their way wi' pleasure:Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,O'er a' the ills o' life victorious.
But pleasures are like poppies spread,—You seize the flower, its bloom is shed;60Or like the snowfall in the river,—A moment white—then melts forever;Or like the borealis race,That flit ere you can point their place;Or like the rainbow's lovely form,65Evanishing amid the storm.Nae man can tether time or tide;The hour approaches Tam maun[39]ride:That hour, o' night's black arch the keystane,That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;70And sic a night he taks the road inAs ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;The rattling showers rose on the blast;The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed;75Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellowed:That night, a child might understand,The Deil[40]had business on his hand.
Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg,(A better never lifted leg,)80Tam skelpit[41]on through dub[42]and mire,Despising wind, and rain, and fire;Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet,Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet;Whiles glowering round wi' prudent cares,85Lest bogles[43]catch him unawares:—Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,Where ghaists and houlets[44]nightly cry.
By this time he was cross the ford,Where in the snaw the chapman smoored[45];90And past the birks[46]and meikle stane,[47]Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane;And through the whins,[48]and by the cairn,[49]Where hunters fand the murdered bairn[50];And near the thorn, aboon the well,95Where Mungo's mither hanged hersel'.Before him Doon pours all his floods;The doubling storm roars through the woods;The lightnings flash from pole to pole;Near and more near the thunders roll;100When, glimmering through the groaning trees,Kirk-Alloway seemed in a bleeze[51];Through ilka bore[52]the beams were glancing,And loud resounded mirth and dancing.
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn,[53]105What dangers thou canst make us scorn!Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil;Wi' usquebae,[54]we'll face the devil!—The swats sae reamed in Tammie's noddle,Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle.[55]110But Maggie stood right sair astonished,Till, by the heel and hand admonished,She ventured forward on the light;And, vow! Tam saw an unco sight!Warlocks and witches in a dance;115Nae cotillion brent[56]new frae France,But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys,[57]and reels,Put life and mettle in their heels.A winnock-bunker[58]in the east,There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;120A towzie tyke,[59]black, grim, and large,To gie them music was his charge;He screwed the pipes and gart them skirl,[60]Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.[61]Coffins stood round, like open presses,125That shawed the dead in their last dresses;And by some devilish cantrip slight[62]Each in its cauld hand held a light:By which heroic Tam was ableTo note upon the haly table,130A murderer's banes in gibbet airns;Twa span-lang, wee unchristened bairns;A thief, new-cutted frae the rape,Wi' his last gasp his gab[63]did gape;Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted;135Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted;A garter which a babe had strangled;A knife, a father's throat had mangled,Whom his ain son o' life bereft,—The gray hairs yet stack to the heft:140Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu',Which even to name wad be unlawfu'!
As Tammie glow'red, amazed and curious,The mirth and fun grew fast and furious;The piper loud and louder blew;145The dancers quick and quicker flew;They reeled, they set, they crossed, they cleekit,[64]Till ilka carlin[65]swat and reekit,And coost her duddies[66]to the wark,And linket[67]at it in her sark[68]!150
Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans,[69]A' plump and strappin' in their teens;Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen,[70]Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder linen[71]!Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair,155That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair,I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies,[72]For ae blink o' the bonny burdies[73]!But withered beldams,[74]auld and drollRigwooddie[75]hags wad spean[76]a foal,160Louping and flinging on a cummock,[77]I wonder didna turn thy stomach.
But Tam kenned what was what fu' brawlie[78];There was ae winsome wench and walie,[79]That night enlisted in the core,[80]165(Lang after kenned on Carrick shore;For monie a beast to dead she shot,And perished monie a bonny boat,And shook baith meikle corn and bear,[81]And kept the country-side in fear.)170Her cutty-sark,[82]o' Paisley harn,[83]That while a lassie she had won,In longitude though sorely scanty,It was her best, and she was vauntie.[84]Ah! little kenned thy reverend grannie175That sark she coft[85]for her wee Nannie,Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches),Wad ever graced a dance o' witches!
But here my Muse her wing maun cour;Sic flights are far beyond her power;—180To sing how Nannie lap and flang[86](A souple jade she was, and strang),And how Tam stood like ane bewitched,And thought his very e'en[87]enriched:Even Satan glow'red and fidged fu' fain,[88]185And hotched[89]and blew wi' might and main:Till first ae caper, syne[90]anither,Tam tint[91]his reason a' thegither,And roars out: "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"And in an instant all was dark:190And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,When out the hellish legion sallied.As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,[92]When plundering herds assail their byke[93];As open poussie's mortal foes,195When, pop! she starts before their nose;As eager runs the market-crowd,When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;So Maggie runs, the witches follow,Wi' monie an eldritch[94]screech and hollow.200
Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get they fairin'[95]!In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin'!In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin';Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg,205And win the keystane o' the brig;There at them thou thy tail may toss,A running-stream they darena cross[96]!But ere the keystane she could make,The fient a tail she had to shake!210For Nannie, far before the rest,Hard upon noble Maggie prest,And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle,[97]—But little wist she Maggie's mettle!Ae spring brought off her master hale,215But left behind her ain gray tail:The carlin claught her by the rump,And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.
Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,Ilk man and mother's son, take heed!220Whene'er to drink you are inclined,Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear,—Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.
O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,Through all the wide Border[98]his steed was the best;And, save his good broadsword, he weapons had none,He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone.So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,5There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,He swam the Esk river[99]where ford there was none;But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,The bride had consented, the gallant came late:10For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall,Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,15(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,)"O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"—"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied;—Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like the tide—20And now I am come, with this lost love of mine,To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."The bride kiss'd the goblet: the knight took it up,25He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup.She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,—"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.30So stately his form, and so lovely her face,There never a hall such a galliard[100]did grace;While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;And the bride-maidens whisper'd, "'Twere better by far,35To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near;So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,So light to the saddle before her he sprung!40"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur[101];They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lee,45But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.So daring in love, and so dauntless in war.Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,Through all the wide Border[98]his steed was the best;And, save his good broadsword, he weapons had none,He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone.So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,5There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,He swam the Esk river[99]where ford there was none;But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,The bride had consented, the gallant came late:10For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall,Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,15(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,)"O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"—
"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied;—Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like the tide—20And now I am come, with this lost love of mine,To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."
The bride kiss'd the goblet: the knight took it up,25He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup.She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,—"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.30
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,There never a hall such a galliard[100]did grace;While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;And the bride-maidens whisper'd, "'Twere better by far,35To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near;So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,So light to the saddle before her he sprung!40"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur[101];They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran;There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lee,45But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.So daring in love, and so dauntless in war.Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
A Pastoral Poem
If from the public way you turn your stepsUp the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll,[102]You will suppose that with an upright pathYour feet must struggle; in such bold ascentThe pastoral mountains front you, face to face.5But courage! for around that boisterous brookThe mountains have all opened out themselves,And made a hidden valley of their own.No habitation can be seen; but theyWho journey thither find themselves alone10With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kitesThat overhead are sailing in the sky.It is in truth an utter solitude;Nor should I have made mention of this DellBut for one object which you might pass by,15Might see and notice not. Beside the brookAppears a straggling heap of unhewn stones!And to that simple object appertainsA story—unenriched with strange events,Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside,20Or for the summer shade. It was the firstOf those domestic tales that spake to meOf shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, menWhom I already loved; not verilyFor their own sakes, but for the fields and hills25Where was their occupation and abode.And hence this Tale, while I was yet a boyCareless of books, yet having felt the powerOf Nature, by the gentle agencyOf natural objects, led me on to feel30For passions that were not my own, and think(At random and imperfectly indeed)On man, the heart of man, and human life.Therefore, although it be a historyHomely and rude, I will relate the same35For the delight of a few natural hearts;And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sakeOf youthful Poets, who among these hillsWill be my second self when I am gone.Upon the forest side in Grasmere vale40There dwelt a shepherd, Michael was his name;An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb.His bodily frame had been from youth to ageOf an unusual strength; his mind was keen,Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs,45And in his shepherd's calling he was promptAnd watchful more than ordinary men.Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds,Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes,When others heeded not, he heard the South50Make subterraneous music, like the noiseOf bagpipers on distant Highland hills.The shepherd, at such warning, of his flockBethought him, and he to himself would say,"The winds are now devising work for me!"55And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drivesThe traveller to a shelter, summoned himUp to the mountains: he had been aloneAmid the heart of many thousand mists,That came to him, and left him, on the heights.60So lived he till his eightieth year was past.And grossly that man errs who should supposeThat the green valleys, and the streams and rocks,Were things indifferent to the shepherd's thoughts.Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed65The common air; hills which with vigorous stepHe had so often climbed; which had impressedSo many incidents upon his mindOf hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear;Which, like a book, preserved the memory70Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved,Had fed or sheltered, linking to such actsThe certainty of honorable gain;Those fields, those hills—what could they less? had laidStrong hold on his affections, were to him75A pleasurable feeling of blind love,The pleasure which there is in life itself.His days had not been passed in singleness.His Helpmate was a comely matron, old—Though younger than himself full twenty years.80She was a woman of a stirring life,Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she hadOf antique form; this large, for spinning wool;That small, for flax; and if one wheel had restIt was because the other was at work.85The Pair had but one inmate in their house,An only Child, who had been born to themWhen Michael, telling o'er his years, beganTo deem that he was old,—in shepherd's phrase,With one foot in the grave. This only Son,90With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm,The one of an inestimable worth,Made all their household. I may truly say,That they were as a proverb in the valeFor endless industry. When day was gone,95And from their occupations out of doorsThe Son and Father were come home, even then,Their labor did not cease; unless when allTurned to the cleanly supper-board, and there,Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk,100Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes,And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the mealWas ended, Luke (for so the Son was named)And his old Father both betook themselvesTo such convenient work as might employ105Their hands by the fireside; perhaps to cardWool for the Housewife's spindle, or repairSome injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe,Or other implement of house or field.Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge,110That in our ancient uncouth country styleWith huge and black projection overbrowedLarge space beneath, as duly as the lightOf day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp;An aged utensil, which had performed115Service beyond all others of its kind.Early at evening did it burn—and late,Surviving comrade of uncounted hours,Which, going by from year to year, had found,And left, the couple neither gay perhaps120Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes,Living a life of eager industry.And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth year,There by the light of this old lamp they sate,Father and Son, while far into the night125The Housewife plied her own peculiar work,Making the cottage through the silent hoursMurmur as with the sound of summer flies.This light was famous in its neighborhood,And was a public symbol of the life130That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced,Their cottage on a plot of rising groundStood single, with large prospect, north and south,High into Easedale,[103]up to Dunmail-Raise,And westward to the village near the lake;135And from this constant light, so regularAnd so far seen, the House itself, by allWho dwelt within the limits of the vale,Both old and young, was namedThe Evening Star.Thus living on through such a length of years,140The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needsHave loved his Helpmate; but to Michael's heartThis son of his old age was yet more dear—Less from instinctive tenderness, the sameFond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all—145Than that a child, more than all other giftsThat earth can offer to declining man,Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts,And stirrings of inquietude, when theyBy tendency of nature need must fail.150Exceeding was the love he bare to him,His heart and his heart's joy! For oftentimesOld Michael, while he was a babe in arms,Had done him female service, not aloneFor pastime and delight, as is the use155Of fathers, but with patient mind enforcedTo acts of tenderness; and he had rockedHis cradle, as with a woman's gentle hand.And, in a later time, ere yet the boyHad put on man's attire, did Michael love,160Albeit of a stern unbending mind,To have the Young-one in his sight, when heWrought in the field, or on his shepherd's stoolSate with a fettered sheep before him stretchedUnder the large old oak, that near his door165Stood single, and from matchless depth of shade,Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun,Thence in our rustic dialect was calledThe Clipping Tree, a name which yet it bears.There while they two were sitting in the shade,170With others round them, earnest all and blitheWould Michael exercise his heart with looksOf fond correction, and reproof bestowedUpon the child, if he disturbed the sheepBy catching at their legs, or with his shouts175Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears.And when by Heaven's good grace the boy grew upA healthy Lad, and carried in his cheekTwo steady roses that were five years old;Then Michael from a winter coppice cut180With his own hand a sapling, which he hoopedWith iron, making it throughout in allDue requisites a perfect shepherd's staff,And gave it to the boy; wherewith equiptHe as a watchman oftentimes was placed185At gate or gap to stem or turn the flock;And, to his office prematurely called,There stood the urchin, as you will divine,Something between a hindrance and a help;And for this cause not always, I believe,190Receiving 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 standAgainst the mountain blasts; and to the heights,195Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways,He with his father daily went, and theyWere as companions, why should I relateThat objects which the shepherd loved beforeWere dearer now? that from the Boy there came200Feelings and emanations—things which wereLight to the sun and music to the wind;And that the old Man's heart seemed born again?Thus in his father's sight the Boy grew up;And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year,205He was his comfort and his daily hope.While in this sort the simple household livedFrom day to day, to Michael's ear there cameDistressful tidings. Long before the timeOf which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound210In surety for his brother's son, a manOf an industrious life, and ample means;But unforeseen misfortunes suddenlyHad prest upon him; and old Michael nowWas summoned to discharge the forfeiture,215A grievous penalty, but little lessThan half his substance. This unlooked-for claim,At the first hearing, for a moment tookMore hope out of his life than he supposedThat any old man ever could have lost.220As soon as he had armed himself with strengthTo look his troubles in the face, it seemedThe Shepherd's sole resource to sell at onceA portion of his patrimonial fields.Such was his first resolve; he thought again,225And his heart failed 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 loveHave we all lived; yet if these fields of ours230Should pass into a stranger's hand, I thinkThat I could not lie quiet in my grave.Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himselfHas scarcely been more diligent than I;And I have lived to be a fool at last235To my own family. An evil manThat was, and made an evil choice, if heWere false to us; and if he were not false,There are ten thousand to whom loss like thisHad been no sorrow. I forgive him;—but240'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus.When I began, my purpose was to speakOf remedies and of a cheerful hope.Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the landShall not go from us, and it shall be free;245He shall possess it, free as is the windThat passes over it. We have, thou know'st,Another kinsman—he will be our friendIn this distress. He is a prosperous man,Thriving in trade—and Luke to him shall go,250And with his kinsman's help and his own thriftHe quickly will repair this loss, and thenHe may return 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,255And Isabel sat silent, for her mindWas busy, looking back into past times.There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself,He was a parish-boy—at the church-doorThey made a gathering for him, shillings, pence260And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbors boughtA basket, which they filled with pedlar's wares;And, with this basket on his arm, the ladWent up to London, found a master there,Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy265To go and overlook his merchandiseBeyond the seas; where he grew wondrous rich,And left estates and monies to the poor,And, at his birthplace, built a chapel, flooredWith marble which he sent from foreign lands.270These thoughts, and many others of like sort,Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel,And her face brightened. The old Man was glad,And thus resumed:—"Well, Isabel! this schemeThese two days, has been meat and drink to me.275Far more than we have lost is left us yet.—We have enough—I wish indeed that IWere younger;—but this hope is a good hope.—Make ready Luke's best garments, of the bestBuy for him more, and let us send him forth280To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night:—If hecouldgo, the Boy should go to-night."Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forthWith a light heart. The Housewife for five daysWas restless morn and night, and all day long285Wrought on with her best fingers to prepareThings needful for the journey of her son.But Isabel was glad when Sunday cameTo stop her in her work: for, when she layBy Michael's side, she through the last two nights290Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep;And when they rose at morning she could seeThat all his hopes were gone. That day at noonShe said to Luke, while they two by themselvesWere sitting at the door, "Thou must not go:295We 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,300Recovered heart. That evening her best fareDid she bring forth, and all together satLike happy people round a Christmas fire.With daylight Isabel resumed her work;And all the ensuing week the house appeared305As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at lengthThe expected letter from their kinsman came,With kind assurances that he would doHis utmost for the welfare of the boy;To which, requests were added, that forthwith310He might be sent to him. Ten times or moreThe letter was read over; IsabelWent forth to show it to the neighbors round;Nor was there at that time on English landA prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel315Had to her house returned, the old Man said,"He shall depart to-morrow." To this wordThe Housewife answered, talking much of thingsWhich, if at such short notice he should go,Would surely be forgotten. But at length320She gave consent, and Michael was at ease.Near the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll,In that deep valley, Michael had designedTo build a Sheepfold; and, before he heardThe tidings of his melancholy loss,325For this same purpose he had gathered upA heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edgeLay thrown together, ready for the work.With Luke that evening thitherward he walked:And soon as they had reached the place he stopped,330And thus the old man spoke to him:—"My son,To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full heartI look upon thee, for thou art the sameThat wert a promise to me ere thy birth,And all thy life hast been my daily joy.335I will relate to thee some little partOf our two histories; 'twill do thee goodWhen thou art from me, even if I should touchOn things thou canst not know of.—After thouFirst cam'st into the world—as oft befalls340To new-born infants—thou didst sleep awayTwo days, and blessings from thy Father's tongueThen fell upon thee. Day by day passed on,And still I loved thee with increasing love.Never to living ear came sweeter sounds345Then when I heard thee by our own firesideFirst uttering, without words, a natural tune;While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joySing at thy mother's breast. Month followed monthAnd in the open fields my life was passed350And on the mountains; else I think that thouHadst been brought up upon thy Father's knees.But we were playmates, Luke: among these hills,As well thou knowest, in us the old and youngHave played together, nor with me didst thou355Lack any pleasure which a boy can know."Luke had a manly heart; but at these wordsHe sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his hand,And said, "Nay, do not take it so—I seeThat these are things of which I need not speak.360—Even to the utmost I have been to theeA kind and a good Father: and hereinI but repay a gift which I myselfReceived at others' hands; for, though now oldBeyond the common life of man, I still365Remember them who loved me in my youth.Both of them sleep together: here they lived,As all their Forefathers had done; and whenAt length their time was come, they were not lothTo give their bodies to the family mould.370I wished that thou should'st live the life they lived:But, 'tis a long time to look back, my Son,And see so little gain from threescore years.These fields were burthened when they came to me;Till I was forty years of age, not more375Than half of my inheritance 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 endureAnother Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke,380If I judge ill for thee, but it seems goodThat thou should'st 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,385It 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 liveTo see a better day. At eighty-fourI still am strong and hale;—do thou thy part;390I will do mine.—I will begin againWith many tasks that were resigned to thee:Up to the heights, and in among the storms,Will I without thee go again, and doAll works which I was wont to do alone,395Before I knew thy face.—Heaven bless thee, Boy!Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fastWith many hopes; it should be so—yes—yes—I knew that thou could'st never have a wishTo leave me, Luke: thou hast been bound to me400Only by links of love: when thou art gone,What will be left to us!—But, I forgetMy purposes. Lay now the corner-stone,As I requested; and hereafter, Luke,When thou art gone away, should evil men405Be thy companions, think of me, my Son,And of this moment; hither turn thy thoughts,And God will strengthen thee: amid all fearAnd all temptation, Luke, I pray that thouMay'st bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived,410Who, being innocent, did for that causeBestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well—When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt seeA work which is not here: a covenant'Twill be between us; but, whatever fate415Befall 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, laidThe first stone of the Sheepfold. At the sight420The old Man's grief broke from him; to his heartHe 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 Boy425Began his journey, and when he had reachedThe public way, he put on a bold face;And all the neighbors, as he passed their doors,Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers,That followed him till he was out of sight.430A good report did from their Kinsman come,Of Luke and his well-doing: and the BoyWrote loving letters, full of wondrous news,Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout"The prettiest letters that were ever seen."435Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts.So, many months passed on: and once againThe Shepherd went about his daily workWith confident and cheerful thoughts; and nowSometimes when he could find a leisure hour440He to that valley took his way, and thereWrought at the Sheepfold. Meantime Luke beganTo slacken in his duty; and, at length,He in the dissolute city gave himselfTo evil courses: ignominy and shame445Fell on him, so that he was driven at lastTo seek a hiding-place beyond the seas.There is a comfort in the strength of love;'Twill make a thing endurable, which elseWould overset the brain, or break the heart:450I have conversed with more than one who wellRemember the old Man, and what he wasYears after he had heard this heavy news.His bodily frame had been from youth to ageOf an unusual strength. Among the rocks455He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud,And listened to the wind; and, as before,Performed all kinds of labor for his sheep,And for the land, his small inheritance.And to that hollow dell from time to time460Did he repair, to build the Fold of whichHis flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yetThe pity which was then in every heartFor the old Man—and 'tis believed by allThat many and many a day he thither went,465And never lifted up a single stone.There, by the Sheepfold, sometimes was he seenSitting alone, or with his faithful Dog,Then old, beside him, lying at his feet.The length of full seven years, from time to time,470He at the building of this Sheepfold wrought,And left the work unfinished when he died.Three years, or little more, did IsabelSurvive her Husband: at his death the estateWas sold, and went into a stranger's hand.475The Cottage which was named theEvening StarIs gone—the ploughshare has been through the groundOn which it stood; great changes have been wroughtIn all the neighborhood:—yet the oak is leftThat grew beside their door; and the remains480Of the unfinished Sheepfold may be seenBeside the boisterous brook of Greenhead Ghyll.
If from the public way you turn your stepsUp the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll,[102]You will suppose that with an upright pathYour feet must struggle; in such bold ascentThe pastoral mountains front you, face to face.5But courage! for around that boisterous brookThe mountains have all opened out themselves,And made a hidden valley of their own.No habitation can be seen; but theyWho journey thither find themselves alone10With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kitesThat overhead are sailing in the sky.It is in truth an utter solitude;Nor should I have made mention of this DellBut for one object which you might pass by,15Might see and notice not. Beside the brookAppears a straggling heap of unhewn stones!And to that simple object appertainsA story—unenriched with strange events,Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside,20Or for the summer shade. It was the firstOf those domestic tales that spake to meOf shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, menWhom I already loved; not verilyFor their own sakes, but for the fields and hills25Where was their occupation and abode.And hence this Tale, while I was yet a boyCareless of books, yet having felt the powerOf Nature, by the gentle agencyOf natural objects, led me on to feel30For passions that were not my own, and think(At random and imperfectly indeed)On man, the heart of man, and human life.Therefore, although it be a historyHomely and rude, I will relate the same35For the delight of a few natural hearts;And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sakeOf youthful Poets, who among these hillsWill be my second self when I am gone.Upon the forest side in Grasmere vale40There dwelt a shepherd, Michael was his name;An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb.His bodily frame had been from youth to ageOf an unusual strength; his mind was keen,Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs,45And in his shepherd's calling he was promptAnd watchful more than ordinary men.Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds,Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes,When others heeded not, he heard the South50Make subterraneous music, like the noiseOf bagpipers on distant Highland hills.The shepherd, at such warning, of his flockBethought him, and he to himself would say,"The winds are now devising work for me!"55And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drivesThe traveller to a shelter, summoned himUp to the mountains: he had been aloneAmid the heart of many thousand mists,That came to him, and left him, on the heights.60So lived he till his eightieth year was past.And grossly that man errs who should supposeThat the green valleys, and the streams and rocks,Were things indifferent to the shepherd's thoughts.Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed65The common air; hills which with vigorous stepHe had so often climbed; which had impressedSo many incidents upon his mindOf hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear;Which, like a book, preserved the memory70Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved,Had fed or sheltered, linking to such actsThe certainty of honorable gain;Those fields, those hills—what could they less? had laidStrong hold on his affections, were to him75A pleasurable feeling of blind love,The pleasure which there is in life itself.His days had not been passed in singleness.His Helpmate was a comely matron, old—Though younger than himself full twenty years.80She was a woman of a stirring life,Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she hadOf antique form; this large, for spinning wool;That small, for flax; and if one wheel had restIt was because the other was at work.85The Pair had but one inmate in their house,An only Child, who had been born to themWhen Michael, telling o'er his years, beganTo deem that he was old,—in shepherd's phrase,With one foot in the grave. This only Son,90With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm,The one of an inestimable worth,Made all their household. I may truly say,That they were as a proverb in the valeFor endless industry. When day was gone,95And from their occupations out of doorsThe Son and Father were come home, even then,Their labor did not cease; unless when allTurned to the cleanly supper-board, and there,Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk,100Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes,And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the mealWas ended, Luke (for so the Son was named)And his old Father both betook themselvesTo such convenient work as might employ105Their hands by the fireside; perhaps to cardWool for the Housewife's spindle, or repairSome injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe,Or other implement of house or field.Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge,110That in our ancient uncouth country styleWith huge and black projection overbrowedLarge space beneath, as duly as the lightOf day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp;An aged utensil, which had performed115Service beyond all others of its kind.Early at evening did it burn—and late,Surviving comrade of uncounted hours,Which, going by from year to year, had found,And left, the couple neither gay perhaps120Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes,Living a life of eager industry.And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth year,There by the light of this old lamp they sate,Father and Son, while far into the night125The Housewife plied her own peculiar work,Making the cottage through the silent hoursMurmur as with the sound of summer flies.This light was famous in its neighborhood,And was a public symbol of the life130That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced,Their cottage on a plot of rising groundStood single, with large prospect, north and south,High into Easedale,[103]up to Dunmail-Raise,And westward to the village near the lake;135And from this constant light, so regularAnd so far seen, the House itself, by allWho dwelt within the limits of the vale,Both old and young, was namedThe Evening Star.Thus living on through such a length of years,140The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needsHave loved his Helpmate; but to Michael's heartThis son of his old age was yet more dear—Less from instinctive tenderness, the sameFond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all—145Than that a child, more than all other giftsThat earth can offer to declining man,Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts,And stirrings of inquietude, when theyBy tendency of nature need must fail.150Exceeding was the love he bare to him,His heart and his heart's joy! For oftentimesOld Michael, while he was a babe in arms,Had done him female service, not aloneFor pastime and delight, as is the use155Of fathers, but with patient mind enforcedTo acts of tenderness; and he had rockedHis cradle, as with a woman's gentle hand.And, in a later time, ere yet the boyHad put on man's attire, did Michael love,160Albeit of a stern unbending mind,To have the Young-one in his sight, when heWrought in the field, or on his shepherd's stoolSate with a fettered sheep before him stretchedUnder the large old oak, that near his door165Stood single, and from matchless depth of shade,Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun,Thence in our rustic dialect was calledThe Clipping Tree, a name which yet it bears.There while they two were sitting in the shade,170With others round them, earnest all and blitheWould Michael exercise his heart with looksOf fond correction, and reproof bestowedUpon the child, if he disturbed the sheepBy catching at their legs, or with his shouts175Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears.And when by Heaven's good grace the boy grew upA healthy Lad, and carried in his cheekTwo steady roses that were five years old;Then Michael from a winter coppice cut180With his own hand a sapling, which he hoopedWith iron, making it throughout in allDue requisites a perfect shepherd's staff,And gave it to the boy; wherewith equiptHe as a watchman oftentimes was placed185At gate or gap to stem or turn the flock;And, to his office prematurely called,There stood the urchin, as you will divine,Something between a hindrance and a help;And for this cause not always, I believe,190Receiving 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 standAgainst the mountain blasts; and to the heights,195Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways,He with his father daily went, and theyWere as companions, why should I relateThat objects which the shepherd loved beforeWere dearer now? that from the Boy there came200Feelings and emanations—things which wereLight to the sun and music to the wind;And that the old Man's heart seemed born again?Thus in his father's sight the Boy grew up;And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year,205He was his comfort and his daily hope.While in this sort the simple household livedFrom day to day, to Michael's ear there cameDistressful tidings. Long before the timeOf which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound210In surety for his brother's son, a manOf an industrious life, and ample means;But unforeseen misfortunes suddenlyHad prest upon him; and old Michael nowWas summoned to discharge the forfeiture,215A grievous penalty, but little lessThan half his substance. This unlooked-for claim,At the first hearing, for a moment tookMore hope out of his life than he supposedThat any old man ever could have lost.220As soon as he had armed himself with strengthTo look his troubles in the face, it seemedThe Shepherd's sole resource to sell at onceA portion of his patrimonial fields.Such was his first resolve; he thought again,225And his heart failed 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 loveHave we all lived; yet if these fields of ours230Should pass into a stranger's hand, I thinkThat I could not lie quiet in my grave.Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himselfHas scarcely been more diligent than I;And I have lived to be a fool at last235To my own family. An evil manThat was, and made an evil choice, if heWere false to us; and if he were not false,There are ten thousand to whom loss like thisHad been no sorrow. I forgive him;—but240'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus.When I began, my purpose was to speakOf remedies and of a cheerful hope.Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the landShall not go from us, and it shall be free;245He shall possess it, free as is the windThat passes over it. We have, thou know'st,Another kinsman—he will be our friendIn this distress. He is a prosperous man,Thriving in trade—and Luke to him shall go,250And with his kinsman's help and his own thriftHe quickly will repair this loss, and thenHe may return 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,255And Isabel sat silent, for her mindWas busy, looking back into past times.There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself,He was a parish-boy—at the church-doorThey made a gathering for him, shillings, pence260And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbors boughtA basket, which they filled with pedlar's wares;And, with this basket on his arm, the ladWent up to London, found a master there,Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy265To go and overlook his merchandiseBeyond the seas; where he grew wondrous rich,And left estates and monies to the poor,And, at his birthplace, built a chapel, flooredWith marble which he sent from foreign lands.270These thoughts, and many others of like sort,Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel,And her face brightened. The old Man was glad,And thus resumed:—"Well, Isabel! this schemeThese two days, has been meat and drink to me.275Far more than we have lost is left us yet.—We have enough—I wish indeed that IWere younger;—but this hope is a good hope.—Make ready Luke's best garments, of the bestBuy for him more, and let us send him forth280To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night:—If hecouldgo, the Boy should go to-night."Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forthWith a light heart. The Housewife for five daysWas restless morn and night, and all day long285Wrought on with her best fingers to prepareThings needful for the journey of her son.But Isabel was glad when Sunday cameTo stop her in her work: for, when she layBy Michael's side, she through the last two nights290Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep;And when they rose at morning she could seeThat all his hopes were gone. That day at noonShe said to Luke, while they two by themselvesWere sitting at the door, "Thou must not go:295We 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,300Recovered heart. That evening her best fareDid she bring forth, and all together satLike happy people round a Christmas fire.With daylight Isabel resumed her work;And all the ensuing week the house appeared305As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at lengthThe expected letter from their kinsman came,With kind assurances that he would doHis utmost for the welfare of the boy;To which, requests were added, that forthwith310He might be sent to him. Ten times or moreThe letter was read over; IsabelWent forth to show it to the neighbors round;Nor was there at that time on English landA prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel315Had to her house returned, the old Man said,"He shall depart to-morrow." To this wordThe Housewife answered, talking much of thingsWhich, if at such short notice he should go,Would surely be forgotten. But at length320She gave consent, and Michael was at ease.Near the tumultuous brook of Greenhead Ghyll,In that deep valley, Michael had designedTo build a Sheepfold; and, before he heardThe tidings of his melancholy loss,325For this same purpose he had gathered upA heap of stones, which by the streamlet's edgeLay thrown together, ready for the work.With Luke that evening thitherward he walked:And soon as they had reached the place he stopped,330And thus the old man spoke to him:—"My son,To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full heartI look upon thee, for thou art the sameThat wert a promise to me ere thy birth,And all thy life hast been my daily joy.335I will relate to thee some little partOf our two histories; 'twill do thee goodWhen thou art from me, even if I should touchOn things thou canst not know of.—After thouFirst cam'st into the world—as oft befalls340To new-born infants—thou didst sleep awayTwo days, and blessings from thy Father's tongueThen fell upon thee. Day by day passed on,And still I loved thee with increasing love.Never to living ear came sweeter sounds345Then when I heard thee by our own firesideFirst uttering, without words, a natural tune;While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joySing at thy mother's breast. Month followed monthAnd in the open fields my life was passed350And on the mountains; else I think that thouHadst been brought up upon thy Father's knees.But we were playmates, Luke: among these hills,As well thou knowest, in us the old and youngHave played together, nor with me didst thou355Lack any pleasure which a boy can know."Luke had a manly heart; but at these wordsHe sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his hand,And said, "Nay, do not take it so—I seeThat these are things of which I need not speak.360—Even to the utmost I have been to theeA kind and a good Father: and hereinI but repay a gift which I myselfReceived at others' hands; for, though now oldBeyond the common life of man, I still365Remember them who loved me in my youth.Both of them sleep together: here they lived,As all their Forefathers had done; and whenAt length their time was come, they were not lothTo give their bodies to the family mould.370I wished that thou should'st live the life they lived:But, 'tis a long time to look back, my Son,And see so little gain from threescore years.These fields were burthened when they came to me;Till I was forty years of age, not more375Than half of my inheritance 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 endureAnother Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke,380If I judge ill for thee, but it seems goodThat thou should'st 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,385It 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 liveTo see a better day. At eighty-fourI still am strong and hale;—do thou thy part;390I will do mine.—I will begin againWith many tasks that were resigned to thee:Up to the heights, and in among the storms,Will I without thee go again, and doAll works which I was wont to do alone,395Before I knew thy face.—Heaven bless thee, Boy!Thy heart these two weeks has been beating fastWith many hopes; it should be so—yes—yes—I knew that thou could'st never have a wishTo leave me, Luke: thou hast been bound to me400Only by links of love: when thou art gone,What will be left to us!—But, I forgetMy purposes. Lay now the corner-stone,As I requested; and hereafter, Luke,When thou art gone away, should evil men405Be thy companions, think of me, my Son,And of this moment; hither turn thy thoughts,And God will strengthen thee: amid all fearAnd all temptation, Luke, I pray that thouMay'st bear in mind the life thy Fathers lived,410Who, being innocent, did for that causeBestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well—When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt seeA work which is not here: a covenant'Twill be between us; but, whatever fate415Befall 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, laidThe first stone of the Sheepfold. At the sight420The old Man's grief broke from him; to his heartHe 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 Boy425Began his journey, and when he had reachedThe public way, he put on a bold face;And all the neighbors, as he passed their doors,Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers,That followed him till he was out of sight.430A good report did from their Kinsman come,Of Luke and his well-doing: and the BoyWrote loving letters, full of wondrous news,Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout"The prettiest letters that were ever seen."435Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts.So, many months passed on: and once againThe Shepherd went about his daily workWith confident and cheerful thoughts; and nowSometimes when he could find a leisure hour440He to that valley took his way, and thereWrought at the Sheepfold. Meantime Luke beganTo slacken in his duty; and, at length,He in the dissolute city gave himselfTo evil courses: ignominy and shame445Fell on him, so that he was driven at lastTo seek a hiding-place beyond the seas.There is a comfort in the strength of love;'Twill make a thing endurable, which elseWould overset the brain, or break the heart:450I have conversed with more than one who wellRemember the old Man, and what he wasYears after he had heard this heavy news.His bodily frame had been from youth to ageOf an unusual strength. Among the rocks455He went, and still looked up to sun and cloud,And listened to the wind; and, as before,Performed all kinds of labor for his sheep,And for the land, his small inheritance.And to that hollow dell from time to time460Did he repair, to build the Fold of whichHis flock had need. 'Tis not forgotten yetThe pity which was then in every heartFor the old Man—and 'tis believed by allThat many and many a day he thither went,465And never lifted up a single stone.There, by the Sheepfold, sometimes was he seenSitting alone, or with his faithful Dog,Then old, beside him, lying at his feet.The length of full seven years, from time to time,470He at the building of this Sheepfold wrought,And left the work unfinished when he died.Three years, or little more, did IsabelSurvive her Husband: at his death the estateWas sold, and went into a stranger's hand.475The Cottage which was named theEvening StarIs gone—the ploughshare has been through the groundOn which it stood; great changes have been wroughtIn all the neighborhood:—yet the oak is leftThat grew beside their door; and the remains480Of the unfinished Sheepfold may be seenBeside the boisterous brook of Greenhead Ghyll.