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.
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,
Down from the ceiling, by the chimney's edge,
Which 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.
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.
This light was famous in its neighbourhood,
For, as it chanced,
Their cottage on a plot of rising ground
Stood single, with large prospect, north and south,
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.
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-
To the thoughts
Of the old man his only son was now
The dearest object that he knew on earth.
Exceeding was the love he bare to him.
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 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 equipped
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;
Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice,
Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform.
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,
And old Michael now
Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture,
A grievous penalty, but little less
Than half his substance.
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 Luke shall leave us, Isabel: the land
Shall not go from us, and it shall be free.
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
At this the old man paused,
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 :
"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.
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.
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.
Both parents read them with rejoicing hearts.
So many months passed on.
Meantime Luke began To slacken in his duty; and at length He in his dissolute city gave himself To evil courses: ignominy and shame
|