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 knowest, in us the old and young Have played together, nor with me didst thou Lack any pleasure which a boy can know." Luke had a manly heart; but at these words He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped 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 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 burdened when they came
Till I was forty years of age, not more
Than 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 endure
Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke, If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good That thou should'st go."
At this the old man paused.
Then, pointing to the stones near which they
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 am strong and hale;-Do thou thy part; I will do mine.-I will begin again
With many tasks that were resigned 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 stooped 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 pressed his Son, he kissèd him and wept; And to the house together they returned.
Hushed was that House in peace, or seeming
Ere the night fell:—with morrow's dawn the Boy Began his journey, and when he had reached The 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.
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 Housewise 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
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 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
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 unfinished when he died. Three years, or little more, did Isabel
Survive her husband: at her death the estate Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand.
The Cottage which was named The Evening Star Is gone the plowshare has been through the
On which it stood; great changes have been wrought
In all the neighborhood:-yet the oak is left That grew beside their door; and the remains Of the unfinished Sheep-fold may be seen Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll
My heart leaps up when I behold. A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland Lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O, listen! for the Vale profound Is overflowing with the sound.
No nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt, Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?- Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago:
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