A
AN annual regatta takes place on Derwentwater, when
the several sports of racing, rowing, and wrestling,
are maintained with great spirit.
The following is an excellent description of one of
these occasions in former times:—"At eight o'clock in the
morning a vast concourse of ladies and gentlemen appeared
on the side of Derwent Lake, where a number of marquees,
extending about 400 yards, were erected for their accommodation.
At twelve, such of the company as were
invited by Mr. Pocklington passed over in boats to the
island which bears his name; and, on their landing, were
saluted by a discharge of his artillery, consisting of five
four pounders and one nine pounder. This might properly
be called the opening of the regatta; for as soon as the
echo of this discharge had ceased, a signal gun was fired,
and five boats, which lay upon their oars (on that part of
the lake which runs nearest the town of Keswick), instantly
pushed off the shore and began the race. A view from any
of the attendant boats, of which there were several, presented
a scene which beggars all description. The sides of
the hoary mountains were clad with spectators, and the
glassy surface of the lake was variegated with numbers of
pleasure barges, which, trimmed out in all the gayest
colours, and glittering in the rays of the meridian sun, gave
a new appearance to the celebrated beauties of this matchless
vale. The contending boats passed Pocklington's
Island, and rounding St. Herbert's Isle and Rampsholme,
edged down by the outside of Lord's Island, describing, in
the race, almost a perfect circle, and, during the greatest
part of it, in full view of the company.
"About three o'clock preparations were made for a sham
attack on Pocklington's Island. The fleet, consisting of
several barges, armed with small cannon and muskets,
retired out of view, behind Friar Crag, to prepare for action;
previous to which a flag of truce was sent to the governor,
with a summons to surrender on honourable terms. A
defiance was returned; soon after which the fleet was seen
advancing with great spirit before the batteries, and
instantly forming a curved line, a terrible cannonading
began on both sides, accompanied with a dreadful discharge
of musketry. This continued for some time, and being
echoed from hill to hill in an amazing variety of sounds,
filled the ear with whatever could produce astonishment
and awe. All nature seemed to be in an uproar; which
impressed, on the awakened imagination, the most lively
ideas of "the war of elements" and "crush of worlds."
After a severe conflict, the enemies were driven from the
attack in great disorder. A feu-de-joie was then fired in
the port, and oft repeated by the responsive echoes. The
fleet, after a little delay, formed again; and practising a
variety of beautiful manœuvres, renewed the attack. Uproar
again sprung up, and the deep-toned echoes of the mountains
again joined in solemn chorus; which was heard at the
distance of ten leagues to leeward, through the easterly
opening of that vast amphitheatre, as far as Appleby.
"The garrison at last capitulated; and the entertainment
of the water being finished, towards the evening the company
rowed to Keswick, to which place, from the water's edge,
a range of lamps was fixed, very happily disposed, and a
number of fire-works played off. An assembly room, which
was built for the purpose, next received the ladies and
gentlemen, and a dance concluded this annual festivity.
"Whilst we sat to regale, the barge put off from shore, to
a station where the finest echoes were to be obtained from
the surrounding mountains. The vessel was provided with
six brass cannon, mounted on swivels; on discharging one
of these pieces the report was echoed from the opposite
rocks, where, by reverberation, it seemed to roll from cliff
to cliff, and return through every cave and valley, till the
decreasing tumult died away upon the ear.
"The instant it ceased the sound of every distant waterfall
was heard; but for an instant only; for the momentary
stillness was interrupted by the returning echo on the hills
behind; where the report was repeated like a peal of
thunder bursting over our heads, continuing for several
seconds, flying from haunt to haunt, till once more the
sound gradually declined. Again the voice of waterfalls
possessed the interval, till to the right the more distant
thunders arose upon some other mountains, and seemed to
take its way up every winding dale and creek; sometimes
behind, on this side, or on that, in wondrous speed running
its dreadful course; when the echo reached the mountains
within the line and channel of the breeze, it was heard at
once on the right and left at the extremities of the lake.
In this manner was the report of every discharge re-echoed
seven times distinctly."
The following descriptive poem appeared on the occasion
of a regatta at Keswick:—
"Scarcely had day's bright god begun his course,
And chas'd the misty vapours from the lake,
When, ardent all for pleasure, forth there sprung
A bright assemblage of firm, active youths,
And virgins blushing like the op'ning bud.
Nay, some there were who sought the sportive scene
Whom frozen age had bow'd with iron hand;
Drawn by the force of curiosity,
Or by the workings of parental care,
To watch and guard their blooming daughter's steps.
The neigh'bouring rustics, too, with massy limbs,
Inur'd to toil, inur'd to fun and rain;
Each led his fav'rite damsel to the sight,
And talk'd of love, or laugh'd with hearty roar.
"And now the vessels all in order range,
To try the fortune of the wat'ry race.
The rowers sit; their eyes with ardour glow,
Attentive watching the appointed sign.
And now the gun, the signal for the course.
Rends with its iron voice th' o'ervaulting sky,
And distant rocks, redoubling, echo back
The horrid note. Instantly they start,
And, adverse looking, try their utmost skill.
Big swells each bulky muscle, strain'd with toil;
O'er their knit brows the drops of labour pour,
Whilst on their faces anxious fear and hope
Alternate sit depicted. Now they come
Almost within the grasp of victory:
Then, then what rapture fires the victor's mind,
When with his toil-strained arm he shakes the flag,
And shouts, applauding, echo all around.
"Now o'er the azure lake the horrid din
Of mimic war resounds; the echoing cliffs
Reverberate, in doubled thunder, back
The awful sounds: fierce peal succeeds to peal,
In savage dire confusion. Had the rocks,
Which awful frown above this limpid plain,
Been shaken from their venerable seats,
Rift by the bolts of Jove, and scattered round,
No sound more loud, more awful, could be heard!
The hero, who, inur'd to bloody war,
Has stood by Elliot, or by Rodney's side,
Whilst million-winged deaths were whistling round,
Now feels his heart beat high; strong throbs each pulse,
His kindling eyes flash fire: upright he stands,
As when on some dread, memorable day
He saw the Frenchmen strike, or Spaniards burn.
His tender spouse, the dear, the soft reward
Of all his toils, astonish'd with the din,
Clings to his side, half-pleased and half-afraid;
When softer echoes roll the distant roar,
She smiles; but when the air-affrighting guns
With iron clamours shake th' impending rocks,
She trembling presses hard her husband's hand,
And weeps to think the perils he has 'scap'd.
"But hark! 'tis silent! see, the fleet retires!
The mellow horns now pour victorious sounds,
Whilst every rock returns the softened strain.
O! now for Shakspeare, or for Milton's muse,
To paint this mingled tide of harmony!
Each cliff, each rock, each mountain, wood, and dale,
Return a varied note; it floats in air;
It mixes, meets, returns; 'tis soft, 'tis loud:
As if th' unnumber'd spirits of the rock
Held their aërial concerts 'midst the hills;
And to his golden harp each join'd his voice,
To welcome to their bower the 'Fairy Queen.'
"Thus joyous and delightful pass'd the day,
Yet not unruffled was this tide of joy:
The fair, the innocent Amelia was
The pride and flower of all the virgin throng!
Her long Damœtas loved, she too loved him,
But looks alone revealed the mutual flame,
For virgin modesty had bound their thoughts
In chains, as yet unbroken. On this day,
Whilst she in rapture viewed th' enchanting scene
(Urged by the motion of the limpid wave),
Her vessel rolling, headlong plunged her in
The blue profound! She sank, then rose again;
Then sank, to rise no more! Damœtas, near,
Beheld her fall: of life regardless then,
He leaped into the flood; with nervous arm
He cut the crystal deep, and plunging down,
Seized, and brought her up again to life.
"Restored now, she op'd her radiant eyes,
And looking gratitude ineffable,
'Is it then you, Damœtas? you whom long
My virgin heart hath own'd!' She could no more:
The rosy hue again forsook her cheek,
The light her eyes, and pallid death awhile
Seemed to return and re-demand his prey.
What then, Damœtas, were the dire alarms
That rent thy manly bosom? Love, despair,
Grief, and astonishment, exert at once
The utmost of their force to tear thy soul!
But see, the rose again resumes its seat
Upon her cheek! again her op'ning eye
Beams softened lustre! Kneeling by her side
Damœtas press'd her hand; in falt'ring words
Propos'd his am'rous suit. Her parents near,
Relieved now from the heart-corroding fear,
First poured in tender words their grateful hearts,
Then to Damœtas gave the willing hand
Of their beloved Amelia. Instant joy
Flushed lively in his cheek, and fired his heart
With all the rapt'rous bliss of mutual love.
He tried in vain to speak, for words, alas!
Could ill express tumultuous joys like his;
He stammer'd, blush'd, and thanked them in thought.
"And now the fiery charioteer of day
Drove down the western steep his blazing car,
When homeward all return to close their sports,
And usher in with dance the sable night.
The sprightly music sounds, the youths advance,
And blooming virgins from the beauteous group:
Then joined in couples, active as the light,
They tread the mazy dance; the swains the while
Join in sweet toil, and press the given hand,
And slyly talk of love; or else, askance,
Speak by their looks the feelings of the heart."
I
IF from the public way you turn your steps
Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,
You will suppose that with an upright path
Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent
The pastoral mountains front you, face to face.
But, courage! for around that boisterous brook
The mountains have all opened out themselves,
And made a hidden valley of their own.
No habitation can be seen; but they
Who journey thither find themselves alone
With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites
That overhead are sailing in the sky.
It is in truth an utter solitude;
Nor should I have made mention of this dell
But for one object which you might pass by—
Might see and notice not. Beside the brook
Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones!
And to that place a story appertains,
Which, though it be ungarnished with events,
Is not unfit, I deem, for the fireside,
Or for the summer shade. It was the first
Of those domestic tales that spake to me
Of shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men
Whom I already loved:—not verily
For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills
Where was their occupation and abode.
And hence this tale, while I was yet a boy
Careless of books, yet having felt the power
Of nature, by the gentle agency
Of natural objects led me on to feel
For passions that were not my own, and think
(At random and imperfectly indeed)
On man, the heart of man, and human life.
Therefore, although it be a history
Homely and rude, I will relate the same
For the delight of a few natural hearts:
And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake
Of youthful poets, who among these hills
Will be my second self when I am gone.
Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale
There dwelt a shepherd, Michael was his name;
An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb.
His bodily frame had been from youth to age
Of an unusual strength; his mind was keen,
Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs,
And in his shepherd's calling he was prompt
And watchful more than ordinary men.
Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds,
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
That 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 had reached 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 Dunmail-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—
Less from instinctive tenderness, the same
Blind spirit, which is in the blood of all—
Than 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.
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 pastime 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 latter 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,[5] a name which yet it bears.
There while they two were sitting in the shade,
With others round them, earnest all and blythe,
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 hands 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 equipp'd
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 hinderance 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 threatening 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 I 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 prest upon him, and old Michael now
Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture;
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 whole 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?" 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 halfpennies, 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 out of many, chose the trusty boy
To go and overlook his merchandize
Beyond the seas; where he grew wondrous rich,
And left estates and monies to the poor,
And at his birth-place built a chapel, floored
With marble which he sent from foreign lands.
These thoughts and many others of like sort,
Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel,
And her face brightened. The old man was glad,
And thus resumed:—"Well, Isabel! this scheme
These two days has been meat and drink to me.
Far more than we have lost is left us yet.
We have enough; I wish indeed that I
Were younger; but this hope is a good hope.
Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best
Buy for him more, and let us send him forth
To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night:
If he could go, the boy should go to-night."
Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth
With a light heart. The housewife for five days
Was restless morn and night, and all day long
Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare
Things needful for the journey of her son.
But Isabel was glad when Sunday came
To stop her in her work; for, when she lay
By Michael's side, she through the last two nights
Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep:
And when they rose at morning she could see
That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon
She said to Luke, while they two by themselves
Were sitting at the door, "Thou must not go:
We have no other child but thee to lose,
None to remember—do not go away,
For if thou leave thy father he will die."
The youth made answer with a jocund voice:
And Isabel, when she had told her fears,
Recovered heart. That evening her best fare
Did she bring forth, and all together sat
Like happy people round a Christmas fire.
With daylight Isabel resumed her work;
And all the ensuing week the house appeared
As cheerful as a grove in spring: at length
The expected letter from their kinsman came,
With kind assurances that he would do
His utmost for the welfare of the boy;
To which requests were added, that forthwith
He might be sent to him. Ten times or more
The letter was read over; Isabel
Went forth to show it to the neighbours round;
Nor was there at that time on English land
A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel
Had to her house returned, the old man said,
"He shall depart to-morrow." To this word
The housewife answered, talking much of things
Which if at such short notice he should go,
Would surely be forgotten. But at length
She gave consent, and Michael was at ease.
Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,
In that deep valley, Michael had designed
To build a sheepfold; 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 cam'st into the world—as oft befals
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 feeble 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
Had'st been brought up upon thy father's knees.
But we were playmates, Luke: among these hills,
As well thou know'st 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 wish 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 bless'd 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 return'st, thou in this place wilt see
A work which is not here—a covenant—
'Twill be between us. But, whatever fate
Befal 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 sheepfold. At the sight
The old man's grief broke from him, to his heart
He pressed his son, he kissed 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 neighbours, 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 sheepfold. 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 upon the sun,
And listened to the wind; and, as before,
Performed all kinds of labour 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 sheepfold, 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 sheepfold 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 neighbourhood; yet the oak is left
That grew beside their door; and the remains
Of the unfinished sheepfold may be seen
Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Ghyll.