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these fields of ours

       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 itself

       Has scarcely been more diligent than I,

       And I have liv’d 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 chearful hope.”

      ”Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land

       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 knowest,

       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

       May come again to us. If here he stay,

       What can be done? Where every one is poor

       What can be gain’d?” At this, the old man paus’d,

       And Isabel sate silent, for her mind

       Was busy, looking back into past times.

      There’s Richard Bateman, thought she to herself,

       He was a parish-boy — at the church-door

       They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence,

       And halfpennies, wherewith the Neighbours bought

       A Basket, which they fill’d with Pedlar’s wares,

       And with this Basket on his arm, the Lad

       Went up to London, found a Master there,

       Who out of many chose the trusty Boy

       To go and overlook his merchandise

       Beyond the seas, where he grew wond’rous rich,

       And left estates and monies to the poor,

       And at his birthplace built a Chapel, floor’d

       With Marble, which he sent from foreign lands.

       These thoughts, and many others of like sort,

       Pass’d quickly thro’ the mind of Isabel,

       And her face brighten’d. The Old Man was glad.

      And thus resum’d. “Well I Isabel, this scheme

       These two days has been meat and drink to me.

       Far more than we have lost is left us yet.

       — We have enough — I wish indeed that I

       Were younger, but this hope is a good hope.

       — Make ready Luke’s best garments, of the best

       Buy for him more, and let us send him forth

       Tomorrow, or the next day, or to-night:

       — If he could go, the Boy should go to-night.”

       Here Michael ceas’d, 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.

      But Isabel was glad when Sunday came

       To stop her in her work; for, when she lay

       By Michael’s side, she for the two last nights

       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 Lad made answer with a jocund voice,

       And Isabel, when she had told her fears,

       Recover’d heart. That evening her best fare

       Did she bring forth, and all together sate

       Like happy people round a Christmas fire.

      Next morning Isabel resum’d her work,

       And all the ensuing week the house appear’d

       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

       Went forth to shew it to the neighbours round:

       Nor was there at that time on English Land

       A prouder heart than Luke’s. When Isabel

       Had to her house return’d, the Old Man said,

       ”He shall depart tomorrow.” To this word

       The House — wife answered, talking much of things

       Which, if at such, short notice he should go,

       Would surely be forgotten. But at length

       She gave consent, and Michael was at ease.

      Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Gill,

       In that deep Valley, Michael had design’d

       To build a Sheepfold, and, before he heard

       The tidings of his melancholy loss,

       For this same purpose he had gathered up

       A heap of stones, which close to the brook side

       Lay thrown together, ready for the work.

       With Luke that evening thitherward he walk’d;

       And soon as they had reach’d the place he stopp’d,

       And thus the Old Man spake to him. “My Son,

       Tomorrow thou wilt leave me; with full heart

       I look upon thee, for thou art the same

       That wert a promise to me ere thy birth,

       And all thy life hast been my daily joy.

       I will relate to thee some little part

       Of our two histories; ‘twill do thee good

       When thou art from me, even if I should speak

       Of things thou caust not know of. — After thou

       First cam’st into the world, as it befalls

       To newborn infants, thou didst sleep away

       Two days, and blessings from thy Father’s tongue

       Then fell upon thee. Day by day pass’d on,

      

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