Of the old man his only son was now
The dearest object that he knew on earth.
Exceeding was the love he bare to him,

His heart and his heart's joy! For oftentime
Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms,
Had done him female service, not alone
For dalliance and delight, as is the use
Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced
To acts of tenderness; and he had rock'd
His cradle 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
Had work by his own door, or when he sat
With sheep before him on his shepherd's stool.
Beneath that large old oak, which near their door
Stood, and, from its enormous breadth of shade,
Chosen for the shearer's covert from the sun,
Thence in our rustic dialect was call'

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 u
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 equipp'd
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 threat'ning 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

• "Clipping" is the word used in the North of England for shearing,

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 yeu 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 press'd 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 gather'd so much strength
That he could look his trouble in the face,
It seem'd that his sole refuge was to sell
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
Have we all lived; yet if these fields of ours
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 itself
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 make 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
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
To 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,

66

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.

After thou

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 wecks has been beating fast
With many hopes-It should be so- -Yes-yes-
I knew that thou couldst never have a wish

o 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