Of blasts of every tone; and, oftentimes,
When others heeded not, he heard the south
Make subterraneous music, like the noise
Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills.
The shepherd, at such warning, of his flock
Bethought him, and he to himself would say:
"The winds are now devising work for me!'
And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives
The traveller to a shelter, summoned him
Up to the mountains: he had been alone
Amid the heart of many thousand mists,
That came to him and left him on the heights.
So lived he till his eightieth year was past;
And grossly that man errs, who should suppose
That the green valleys and the streams and rocks
Were things indifferent to the shepherd's thoughts.
Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed

The common air; the hills, which he so oft
Had climbed with vigorous steps; which had impressed
So many incidents upon his mind

Of hardship, skill, or courage, joy, or fear;
Which like a book preserved the memory
Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved,
Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts,
So grateful in themselves, the certainty
Of honourable gain; these fields, these hills,
Which were his living being, even more

Than his own blood-what could they less? had laid
Strong hold on his affections, were to him

A 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.
She was a woman of a stirring life,

Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she had
Of antique form,-this large for spinning wool,
That small for flax; and if one wheel had rest,
It was because the other was at work.
The pair had but one inmate in their house
An only child, who had been born to them
When Michael, telling o'er his years, began
To deem that he was old,-in shepherd's phrase,
With one foot in the grave. This only son,
With 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 vale
For endless industry. When day was gone,
And from their occupations out of doors
The son and father were come home, even then
Their labour did not cease; unless when all
Turned to their cleanly supper-board, and there,
Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk,
Sat round their basket piled with oaten cakes,
And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when their meal
Was ended, Luke (for so the son was named)
And his old father both betook themselves
To such convenient work as might employ
Their hands by the fireside; perhaps to card
Wool for the housewife's spindle, or repair
Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe,
Or other implement of house or field.

Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge,
Which, in our ancient uncouth country style,
Did with a huge projection overbrow
Large space beneath, as duly as the light
Of day grew dim, the housewife hung a lamp,
An aged utensil, which had performed
Service 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, perhaps,
Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes,
Living a life of eager industry.

And now, when Luke was in his eighteenth year,
There by the light of this old lamp they sat,
Father and son, while late into the night
The housewife plied her own peculiar work,
Making the cottage through the silent hours
Murmur as with the sound of summer flies.
This light was famous in its neighbourhood,
And was a public symbol of the life

The thrifty pair had lived. For, as it chanced,
Their cottage on a plot of rising ground

Stood single, with large prospect, north and south,
High into Easedale, up to Dunmal-Raise,

And westward to the village near the lake;
And from this constant light, so regular
And so far seen, the house itself, by all
Who dwelt within the limits of the vale,

Both old and young, was named the "Evening Star."

Thus living on through such a length of years.
The shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs
Have loved his helpmate; but to Michael's heart
This son of his old age was yet more dear,-
Effect which might perhaps have been produced
By that instinctive tenderness, the same
Blind spirit, which is in the blood of all-
Or that a child, more than all other gifts,

Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts,
And stirrings of inquietude, when they
By tendency of nature needs must fail.
From such, and other causes, to the thoughts
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 oftentimes
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 rocked
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 called

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 bestowed Upon the child, if he disturbed 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 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 equipped.
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;
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
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 seemed born again?

Thus in his father's sight the boy grew up:
And now when he had reached his eighteenth year,
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 1 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 pressed upon him,-and old Michael now
Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture,

"Clipping" is the word used in the north of England for shearing.

A grievous penalty, but little less

Than half his substance. This unlooked-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 gathered so much strength
That he could look his trouble in the face,
It seemed that his sole refuge was to sell
A portion of his patrimonial fields.
Such was his first resolve; he thought again,
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 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 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 knowest, 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 filled with pedlar's wares;
And with this basket on his arm, the lad
Went up to London, found a master there,
Who cut 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 floored