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 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 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,

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 threescore 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 hale;-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 weeks has been beating fast
With many hopes; it should be so,

yes yes,

I knew that thou couldst never have a wish

To 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

Bestir them in good deeds. Now, fare thee well!

When thou return'st, thou in this place wilt see
A work which is not here: a covenant

"Twill be between us; but, whatever fate
Befall thee, I shall love thee to the last,
And bear thy memory with me to the grave."

The Shepherd ended here; and Luke stoop'd down, And, as his Father had requested,

Laid the first stone of the Sheep-fold.

At the sight
The old Man's grief broke from him; to his heart
He press'd his Son, he kissèd him and wept;
And to the house together they return'd.

Hush'd was that House in peace, or seeming peace,
Ere the night fell: with morrow's dawn the Boy
Began his journey, and when he had reach'd
The public way, he put on a bold face;

And all the neighbours, as he pass'd their doors,
Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers,
That follow'd him till he was out of sight.

A good report did from their Kinsman come,
Of Luke and his well-doing: and the Boy
Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news,
Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout
"The prettiest letters that were ever seen."
Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts.
So, many months pass'd on: and once again
The Shepherd went about his daily work
With confident and cheerful thoughts; and now
Sometimes when he could find a leisure hour
He to that valley took his way, and there
Wrought at the Sheep-fold. Meantime Luke began
To slacken in his duty; and, at length,
He in the dissolute city gave himself
To evil courses: ignominy and shame.
Fell on him, so that he was driven at last
To seek a hiding-place beyond the seas.

There is a comfort in the strength of love;
"Twill make a thing endurable, which else
Would overset the brain, or break the heart:
I have conversed with more than one who well
Remember the old Man, and what he was
Years after he had heard this heavy news.
His bodily frame had been from youth to age
Of an unusual strength. Among the rocks
He went, and still look'd up to Sun and cloud,
And listen'd to the wind; and, as before,
Perform'd all kinds of labour for his sheep,

And for the land, his small inheritance.
And to that hollow dell from time to time
Did he repair, to build the Fold of which
His flock had need. "Tis not forgotten yet
The pity which was then in every heart
For the old Man; and 'tis believed by all
That many and many a day he thither went,
And never lifted up a single stone.

There, by the Sheep-fold, sometimes was he seen
Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog,

Then old, beside him, lying at his feet.

The length of full seven years, from time to time,
He at the building of this Sheep-fold wrought,
And left the work unfinish'd when he died.
Three years, or little more, did Isabel

Survive her Husband: at her death th' estate
Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand.

The Cottage which was named the EVENING STAR
Is gone; the ploughshare has been through the ground
On which it stood; great changes have been wrought
In all the neighbourhood: yet the oak is left

That grew beside their door; and the remains
Of the unfinish'd Sheep-fold may be seen

Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll.

[1800.

"THESE Tourists, Heaven preserve us! needs must live A profitable life: some glance along,

Rapid and gay, as if the earth were air,
And they were butterflies to wheel about
Long as the Summer lasted: some, as wise,
Perch'd on the forehead of a jutting crag,
Pencil in hand and book upon the knee,
Will look and scribble, scribble on and look,
Until a man might travel twelve stout miles,
Or reap an acre of his neighbour's corn.
But, for that moping Son of Idleness,

Why can he tarry yonder?-In our church-yard
Is neither epitaph nor monument,

Tombstone nor name, - only the turf we tread
And a few natural graves."

To Jane, his wife,

Thus spake the homely Priest of Ennerdale.
It was a July evening; and he sate