And still I loved thee with increasing love. 345 Never to living ear came sweeter sounds Than when I heard thee by our own fireside First uttering, without words, a natural tune; While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy Sing at thy mother's breast. Month followed month, 350 And in the open fields my life was passed And on the mountains; else I think that thou Hadst been brought up upon thy father's knees. But we were playmates, Luke: among these hills, As well thou knowest, in us the old and young 355 Have played together, nor with me didst 385 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 wished that thou shouldst live the life they lived, But 'tis a long time to look back, my son, Till I was forty years of age, not more 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 stoneHere, 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 390 I still am strong and hale;-do thou thy 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, 405 When thou art gone away, should evil men Be thy companions, think of me, my son, And of this moment; hither turn thy thoughts, 440 And God will strengthen thee: amid all fear And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou 410 May'st bear in mind the life thy fathers 445 lived, Who, being innocent, did for that cause thee well When thou return 'st, thou in this place wilt see A work which is not here: a covenant 415 "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 420 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, 425 Ere the night fell:-with morrow's dawn the boy 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, There is a comfort in the strength of "Twill make a thing endurable, which else 450 Would overset the brain, or break the heart: I have conversed with more than one who Remember the old man, and what he was 455 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. 460 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 Began his journey, and, when he had 465 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 Sitting alone, or with his faithful dog, 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 475 Was sold, and went into a stranger's hand. The cottage which was named THE EVE NING STAR Is gone-the ploughshare has been through the ground On which it stood; great changes have been wrought 10 The steps of June; as if their various hues Were only hindrances that stood between Them and their object: but, meanwhile, prevailed Such an entire contentment in the air That every naked ash, and tardy tree 15 Yet leafless, showed as if the countenance With which it looked on this delightful day Were native to the summer.-Up the brook I roamed in the confusion of my heart, Alive to all things and forgetting all. 20 At length I to a sudden turning came In this continuous glen, where down a rock The stream, so ardent in its course before, Sent forth such sallies of glad sound, that all Which I till then had heard appeared the voice 25 Of common pleasure; beast and bird, the lamb, The shepherd's dog, the linnet and the thrush, Vied with this waterfall, and made a song Which, while I listened, seemed like the wild growth Or like some natural produce of the air, 30 That could not cease to be. Green leaves were here; 35 But 'twas the foliage of the rocks-the birch, The yew, the holly, and the bright green thorn, With hanging islands of resplendent furze : 40 "Our thoughts at least are ours; and this wild nook, My Emma,1 I will dedicate to thee.' -Soon did the spot become my other home, My dwelling, and my out-of-doors abode. And of the shepherds who have seen me there, To whom I sometimes in our idle talk Have told this fancy, two or three, perhaps, 45 Years after we are gone and in our grayes, When they have cause to speak of this wild place, May call it by the name of EMMA'S DELL. "TIS SAID THAT SOME HAVE DIED FOR LOVE When thus his moan he made: "Oh, move, thou Cottage, from behind that oak! Or let the aged tree uprooted lie, 15 That in some other way yon smoke May mount into the sky! The clouds pass on; they from the heavens I look the sky is empty space; 20 But when I cease to look, my hand is on my heart. "O! what a weight is in these shades! Ye Leaves, That murmur once so dear, when will it Your sound my heart of rest bereaves, 25 Thou Thrush, that singest loud-and loud and free, Into yon row of willows flit, Or sing another song, or choose another tree. 1 A name given to Wordsworth's sister Dorothy. The fence where that aspiring shrub 490 In mortal stillness; and they ministered looked out Upon the public way. It was a plot Of garden ground run wild, its matted weeds 455 Marked with the steps of those, whom, as they passed, The gooseberry trees that shot in long lank 495 slips, Or currants, hanging from their leafless stems, In scanty strings, had tempted to o'erleap The broken wall. I looked around, and there, 460 Where two tall hedge-rows of thick alder boughs Joined in a cold damp nook, espied a well Shrouded with willow-flowers and plumy fern. My thirst I slaked, and, from the cheerless spot Withdrawing, straightway to the shade returned 465 Where sate the old man on the cottagebench; And, while, beside him, with uncovered I yet was standing, freely to respire, 470 Things which you cannot see: we die, my friend, Nor we alone, but that which each man And prized in his peculiar nook of earth soon Even of the good is no memorial left. 475 The poets, in their elegies and songs Lamenting the departed, call the groves, They call upon the hills and streams to mourn, And senseless rocks; nor idly; for they speak, In these their invocations, with a voice 480 Obedient to the strong creative power Of human passion. Sympathies there are That steal upon the meditative mind, 485 And eyed its waters till we seemed to feel One sadness, they and I. For them a bond Of brotherhood is broken: time has been them up 500 505 To human comfort. Stooping down to drink, The light extinguished of her lonely hut, The hut itself abandoned to decay, 510 And she forgotten in the quiet grave. |