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 rocked 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, 160 Albeit of a stern unbending mind,
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 Due requisites a perfect shepherd's staff, And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipt He as a watchman oftentimes was placed At 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;
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 summoned to discharge the forfeiture, 215 A grievous penalty, but little less
Than half his substance. This unlooked-for
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 armed himself with strength To look his trouble in the face, it seemed The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at once A portion of his patrimonial fields. Such was his first resolve; he thought again, 225 And 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 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 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,250 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 everyone 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 neighbors bought
A basket, which they filled with peddler'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 birth-place, built a chapel, floored With marble, which he sent from foreign lands.
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;300 And Isabel, when she had told her fears, Recovered heart. That evening her best fare
Went forth to show it to the neighbors round; Nor was there at that time on English land 315 A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel Had to her house returned, the old Man said, "He shall depart to-morrow." To this word The Housewife answered, talking much of things
Which, if at such short notice he should go, 320 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 designed To build a Sheep-fold; and, before he heard 325 The tidings of his melancholy loss,
For this same purpose he had gathered up
A heap of stones which by the streamlet's edge Lay thrown together, ready for the work. With Luke that evening thitherward he walked: And soon as they had reached the place he stopped,
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.-After thou
First camest into the world-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 passed 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 followed month,
And in the open fields my life was passed And on the mountains; else I think that thou Hadst been brought up upon thy Father's
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 wished 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 burthened when they came
With many hopes; it should be so-yes-yes- I knew that thou couldst never have a wish 401 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 410 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
A good report did from their Kinsman come, Of Luke and his well-doing: and the Boy Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news, 435 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 passed 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, 450 "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 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 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,
Behold the Child among his new-born blisses, 85 A six years' Darling of a pigmy size! See, where 'mid work of his own hand he lies, Fretted by sallies of his mother's kisses, With light upon him from his father's eyes! See, at his feet, some little plan or chart, Some fragment from his dream of human life, Shaped by himself with newly-learned art;
A wedding or a festival,
A mourning or a funeral;
And this hath now his heart, song:
And unto this he frames his
Then will he fit his tongue
Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep Thy heritage, thou Eye among the blind, That, deaf and silent, read'st the eternal deep, Haunted forever by the eternal mind,—
Mighty Prophet! Seer blest! On whom those truths do rest, Which we are toiling all our lives to find, In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; Thou, over whom thy Immortality Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, A Presence which is not to be put by; Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 125 Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight, Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!
The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction: not indeed
For that which is most worthy to be blest; Delight and liberty, the simple creed
Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his
Not for these I raise
The song of thanks and praise; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings;3 Blank misgivings of a Creature
Moving about in worlds not realized,
High instincts before which our mortal Nature Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised:
2 The stage on which men and women are exhibited in various moods and whims. The quotation is from Daniel's Musophilus.
3 Wordsworth tells us that at times the external world became vague and unreal to him, and adds: "Many times while going to school have I grasped at a wall or tree to recall myself from this abyss of idealism to the reality." This questioning of the reality of the world, this occasional feeling that things of the senses are falling from us, vanishing, suggests to Wordsworth the immortality of the soul; and it is for these experiences that he is chiefly thankful.
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