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The fhepherd ended here: and Luke ftooped down,
And as his father had requested, laid
The firft ftone of the fheepfold. At the fight
The old man's grief broke from him, to his heart
He preffed his fon, he kiffèd him and wept :
And to the house together they returned.
-Hushed was that house in peace, or feeming 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 neighbours, as he passed their doors,
Came forth with wishes and with farewell prayers,
That followed him till he was out of fight.
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 paffed on: and once again. The fhepherd 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 sheepfold. Meantime Luke began. To flacken in his duty; and at length
He in the diffolute city gave himself
To evil courses: ignominy and fhame
Fell on him, fo that he was driven at last
To feek a hiding-place beyond the seas.
There is a comfort in the strength of love; 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else Would break the heart:-old Michael found it fo. I have conversed with more than one who well Remembered 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 upon the fun, And liftened to the wind; and as before Performed all kinds of labour for his fheep, 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, fometimes was he feen Sitting alone, or with his faithful dog,
Then old, befide him, lying at his feet.
The length of full seven years, from time to time,
He at the building of this sheepfold wrought,
And left the work unfinished when he died.
Three years, or little more, did Ifabel
Survive her husband: at her death the eftate
Was fold, 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 befide their door; and the remains
Of the unfinished sheepfold may be seen.
Beside the boisterous brook of Greenhead Ghyll.
(Written when going to bring home his Bride.)
Farewell, thou little nook of mountain-ground,
Thou rocky corner in the lowest stair
Of that magnificent temple which doth bound
One fide of our whole vale with grandeur rare;
Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair,
The lovelieft spot that man hath ever found,
Farewell! We leave thee to Heaven's peaceful care,
Thee, and the cottage which thou doft furround.
Our boat is fafely anchored by the shore,
And fafely she will ride when we are gone;
The flowering fhrubs that decorate our door
Will profper, though untended and alone:
Fields, goods, and far-off chattels we have none;
These narrow bounds contain our private ftore
Of things earth makes, and fun doth shine upon;
Here are they in our fight-we have no more.
Sunshine and shower be with you, bud and bell!
For two months now in vain we shall be fought:
We leave you here in folitude to dwell
With these our lateft gifts of tender thought;
Thou, like the morning, in thy faffron coat,
Bright gowan, and marsh-marigold, farewell!
Whom from the borders of the lake we brought,
And placed together near our rocky well.
go for one to whom you will be dear;
And she will prize this bower, this Indian shed,
Our own contrivance, building without peer!
-A gentle maid, whofe heart is lowly bred,
Whose pleasures are in wild fields gathered,
With joyousness, and with a thoughtful cheer,
She 'll come to you,-to you herself will wed,-
And love the bleffed life which we lead here.
Dear fpot! which we have watched with tender heed,
Bringing thee chosen plants and bloffoms blown
Among the distant mountains, flower and weed,
Which thou haft taken to thee as thy own,
Making all kindness registered and known;
Thou for our fakes, though Nature's child indeed,
Fair in thyself and beautiful alone,
Haft taken gifts which thou doft little need.
And O moft conftant, yet most fickle place,
Thou haft thy wayward moods, as thou doft show
To them who look not daily on thy face;
Who, being loved, in love no bounds doft know,
And say'st when we forfake thee, "Let them go !
Thou easy-hearted thing, with thy wild race
Of weeds and flowers, till we return be flow,-
And travel with the year at a foft pace.
Help us to tell her tales of years gone by,
And this sweet spring, the best beloved and best;
Joy will be flown in its mortality;
Something must stay to tell us of the rest.
Here, thronged with primroses, the steep rock's breast