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 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,

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?" ·

Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll

In that deep valley, Michael had designed

To build a sheep-fold; and, before he heard

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 speak
Of 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 fireside
First uttering, without words, a natural tune;
When 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 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 burthened when they came to me;
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 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 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 returnest, 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 peace,
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 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;
"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 towards the sun,
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, with that 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 ploughshare has been through the ground
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.

FURTHER READING.—Intimations of Immortality in the Rhetoric; and The Excursion, Bk. I., in pamphlet, by Clark & Maynard.

LESSON 61.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.-"Scott was Wordsworth's dear friend, and his career as a poet began, 1805, when Wordsworth first came to Grasmere, with the Lay of the Last Minstrel. Marmion followed in 1808, and the Lady of the Lake in 1810. These were his best poems; the others, with the exception of