The shepherd ended here: and Luke stooped down,
And as his father had requested, laid
The first stone 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.
-Hufhed 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 wifhes and with farewell prayers,
That followed him till he was out of fight.
A good report did from their kinfman 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 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 seek 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 converfed 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 fmall 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 sheepfold, 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 estate
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
Befide 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 store
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 latest gifts of tender thought;
Thou, like the morning, in thy saffron coat,
Bright gowan, and marsh-marigold, farewell!
Whom from the borders of the lake we brought,
And placed together near our rocky well.
We
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, whose 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 diftant 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 most constant, yet most fickle place,
Thou haft thy wayward moods, as thou doft fhow
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 reft.
Here, thronged with primroses, the steep rock's breast
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