Than that a child, more than all other gifts
That earth can offer to declining man,
Brings hope with it, and forward-looking
thoughts,

150

155

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, as with a woman's gentle hand.
And, in a later time, ere yet the boy
Had put on boy's attire, did Michael love, 160
Albeit of a stern unbending mind,

To have the Young one in his sight, when he
Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd's stool
Sate with a fettered sheep before him stretched
Under the large old oak, that near his door
Stood single, and, from matchless depth of
shade

165

grew up

180

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 equipt
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;

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220

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 armed himself with strength
To look his trouble in the face, it seemed
The Shepherd's sole resource to sell at once
A portion of his patrimonial fields.
Such was his first resolve; he thought again, 225
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 230
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

235

240

245

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,250
And with his kinsman's help and his own thrift
He quickly will repair this loss, and then
He may return to us. If here he stay,
What can be done? Where everyone is poor,
What can be gained?”

255

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,

260

He was a parish-boy--at the church-door
They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence
And half pennies, wherewith the neighbors
bought

A basket, which they filled with peddler's wares;
And, with this basket on his arm, the lad
Went up to London, found a master there, 265
Who, out 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 birth-place, built a chapel, floored
With marble, which he sent from foreign
lands.

271

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

290

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;300
And Isabel, when she had told her fears,
Recovered heart. That evening her best fare

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305

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

310

Went forth to show it to the neighbors round; Nor was there at that time on English land 315 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, 320
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 Sheep-fold; and, before he heard 325
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,

331

360

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.

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370

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

I 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, 395
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

405

With many hopes; it should be so-yes-yes-
I knew that thou couldst never have a wish 401
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 410
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

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

A good report did from their Kinsman come, Of Luke and his well-doing: and the Boy Wrote loving letters, full of wondrous news, 435 Which, as the Housewife phrased it, were throughout

440

"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.

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455

There is a comfort in the strength of love, 450 "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 to sun and cloud, 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,

460

465

470

Sitting alone, or with his faithful Dog,
Then old, beside him, lying at his feet.
The length of full seven years, from time to

time,

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120

On whom those truths do rest, Which we are toiling all our lives to find, In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; Thou, over whom thy Immortality Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, A Presence which is not to be put by; Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? 125 Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight, Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life!'

Not for these I raise

The song of thanks and praise; But for those obstinate questionings Of sense and outward things, Fallings from us, vanishings;3 Blank misgivings of a Creature

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145

Moving about in worlds not realized,
High instincts before which our mortal Nature
Did tremble like a guilty thing surprised:

The stage on which men and women are exhibited in various moods and whims. The quotation is from Daniel's Musophilus.

3 Wordsworth tells us that at times the external world became vague and unreal to him, and adds: "Many times while going to school have I grasped at a wall or tree to recall myself from this abyss of idealism to the reality." This questioning of the reality of the world, this occasional feeling that things of the senses are falling from us, vanishing, suggests to Wordsworth the immortality of the soul; and it is for these experiences that he is chiefly thankful.