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 returnest, thou in this place wilt see A work which is not here-a covenant
'Twill be between us. But whatever fate
Befall 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 kissèd 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 towards 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.
[Written at Rydal Mount. The incident of the trees growing and withering put the subject into my thoughts.]
"WITH Sacrifice, before the rising morn
Vows have I made, by fruitless hope inspired; And from the infernal gods, 'mid shades forlorn, Of night, my slaughtered lord have I required; Celestial pity I again implore ;—
Restore him to my sight, great Jove, restore!"
So speaking, and by fervent love endowed
With faith, the suppliant heavenward lifts her hands; While, like the sun emerging from a cloud, Her countenance brightens and her eye expands, Her bosom heaves and spreads, her stature grows, And she expects the issue in repose.
O terror! what hath she perceived? O joy!
What doth she look on-whom doth she behold? Her hero slain upon the beach of Troy? His vital presence-his corporeal mould? It is if sense deceive her not-'tis he! And a God leads him-wingèd Mercury!
Mild Hermes spake, and touched her with his wand That calms all fear : Such grace hath crowned thy prayer, Laodamia, that at Jove's command
Thy husband walks the paths of upper air:
He comes to tarry with thee three hours' space; Accept the gift; behold him face to face!"
Forth sprang the impassioned queen her lord to clasp; Again that consummation she essayed; But unsubstantial form eludes her grasp As often as that eager grasp was made. The phantom parts-but parts to reunite And reassume his place before her sight.
"Protesilaus, lo! thy guide is gone! Confirm, I pray, the vision with thy voice: This is our palace,-yonder is thy throne; Speak, and the floor thou tread'st on will rejoice. Not to appal me have the gods bostowed
This precious boon,-and blessed a sad abode."
Great Jove, Laodamia, doth not leave
His gifts imperfect:-Spectre though I be, I am not sent to scare thee or deceive, But in reward of thy fidelity.
And something also did my worth obtain; For fearless virtue bringeth boundless gain.
"Thou know'st, the Delphic oracle foretold
That the first Greek who touched the Trojan strand Should die; but me the threat could not withhold: A generous cause a victim did demand; And forth I leapt upon the sandy plain; A self-devoted chief-by Hector slain."
"Supreme of heroes-bravest, noblest, best! Thy matchless courage I bewail no more,
Which then, when tens of thousands were depressed By doubt, propelled thee to the fatal shore;
Thou found'st-and I forgive thee-here thou art— A nobler counsellor than my poor heart.
"But thou, though capable of sternest deed, Wert kind as resolute, and good as brave;
And he, whose power restores thee, hath decreed That thou should'st cheat the malice of the grave; Redundant are thy locks, thy lips as fair
As when their breath enriched Thessalian air.
"No spectre greets me,-no vain shadow this: Come, blooming hero, place thee by my side! Give, on this well-known couch, one nuptial kiss To me, this day a second time thy bride!" Jove frowned in heaven: the conscious Parcæ threw Upon those roseate lips a Stygian hue.
"This visage tells thee that my doom is past: Nor should the change be mourned, even if the joys Of sense were able to return as fast
And surely as they vanish.-Earth destroys Those raptures duly-Erebus disdains:
Calm pleasures there abide--majestic pains.
"Be taught, O faithful consort, to control Rebellious passion; for the gods approve The depth, and not the tumult of the soul; A fervent, not ungovernable, love.
Thy transports moderate; and meekly mourn When I depart, for brief is my sojourn—
"Ah, wherefore?-Did not Hercules by force Wrest from the guardian monster of the tomb Alcestis, a reanimated corse,
Given back to dwell on earth in vernal bloom? Medea's spells dispersed the weight of years, And Æson stood a youth 'mid youthful peers.
"The gods to us are merciful—and they Yet further may relent: for mightier far Than strength of nerve and sinew, or the sway Of magic potent over sun and star,
Is love--though oft to agony distressed;
And though his favourite seat be feeble woman's breast.
"But if thou goest, I follow" "Peace!" he said-She looked upon him and was calmed and cheered; The ghastly colour from his lips had fled :
In his deportment, shape, and mien, appeared Elysian beauty-melancholy grace-
Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure; No fears to beat away-no strife to heal- The past unsighed for, and the future sure; Spake of heroic arts in graver mood Revived, with finer harmony pursued;
Of all that is most beauteous-imaged there In happier beauty; more pellucid streams, An ampler ether, a diviner air,
And fields invested with purpureal gleams; Climes which the sun, that sheds the brightest day Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey.
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