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Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe,

       Or other implement of house or field.

      Down from the cicling 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;

       An aged utensil, which had perform’d

       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 chearful, yet with objects and with hopes

       Living a life of eager industry.

      And now, when LUKE was in his eighteenth year,

       There by the light of this old lamp they sate,

       Father and Son, while late into the night

       The Housewife plied her own peculiar work,

       Making the cottage thro’ the silent hours

       Murmur as with the sound of summer flies.

      Not with a waste of words, but for the sake

       Of pleasure, which I know that I shall give

       To many living now, I of this Lamp

       Speak thus minutely: for there are no few

       Whose memories will bear witness to my tale,

       The Light was famous in its neighbourhood,

       And was a public Symbol of the life,

       The thrifty Pair had liv’d. For, as it chanc’d,

       Their Cottage on a plot of rising ground

       Stood single, with large prospect North and South,

       High into Easedale, up to Dunmal-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 nam’d The Evening Star.

      Thus living on through such a length of years,

       The Shepherd, if he lov’d himself, must needs

       Have lov’d his Helpmate; but to Michael’s heart

       This Son of his old age was yet more dear —

       Effect which might perhaps have been produc’d

       By that instinctive tenderness, the same

       Blind Spirit, which is in the blood of all,

       Or 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.

      From such, and other causes, 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,

       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 dalliance and delight, as is the use

       Of Fathers, but with patient mind enforc’d

       To acts of tenderness; and he had rock’d

       His cradle with a woman’s gentle hand.

      And in a later 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 sate

       With sheep before him on his Shepherd’s stool,

       Beneath that large old Oak, which near their door

       Stood, and from it’s enormous breadth of shade

       Chosen for the Shearer’s covert from the sun,

       Thence in our rustic dialect was call’d

       The CLIPPING TREE, a name which yet it bears.

      There, while they two were sitting in the shade,

       With others round them, earnest all and blithe,

       Would Michael exercise his heart with looks

       Of fond correction and reproof bestow’d

       Upon the child, if he dislurb’d the sheep

       By catching at their legs, or with his shouts

       Scar’d 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 hand a sapling, which he hoop’d

       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 plac’d

       At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock,

       And to his office prematurely call’d

       There stood the urchin, as you will divine,

       Something between a hindrance and a help,

       And for this cause not always, I believe,

       Receiving from his Father hire of praise.

      While this good household thus were living on

       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 press’d upon him, and old Michael now

       Was summon’d to discharge the forfeiture,

       A grievous penalty, but little less

       Than half his substance. This un-look’d-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 gather’d so much strength

       That he could look his trouble in the face,

       It seem’d that his sole refuge was to sell

       A portion of his patrimonial fields.

       Such was his first resolve; he thought again,

       And his heart fail’d him. “Isabel,” said he,

       Two evenings after he had heard the news,

       ”I have been toiling more than seventy years,

       And

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